


On the Street Where You Live

by felinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Florist!Sherlock, Gen, I'm so sorry, Irene Adler - Freeform, Past Domestic Violence, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Burn, Tattoo artist!Molly, a little Mystrade, florist/tattoo artist au, meddling Dr. Watson, meddling landlady, meddling neighbor, meddling uncle, much abuse of Much Ado About Nothing, much abuse of Shakespeare, omg slower burn than I thought it would be, pretty much everyone meddles, tattoo artist/florist au, those darn meddling adults!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 70,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6691762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefemme/pseuds/felinefemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't usually write fanfic AUs (yeah, I do, who am I kidding?), but this (http://revengepunk.tumblr.com/tagged/florist%2Ftattoo-artist-au) sounded extremely cute.  Can't help it, I got inspired XD</p><p>Not beta'd or Brit-picked, sorry!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There once was a tattoo parlor and a flower shop on the same street. They were sitting right across from each other, in fact, one seemingly sunny and bright, the other clinically sterile. One opened early and closed up at a respectable hour (though the lights were still on in the greenhouse in the back until very late), and the other opened mid-morning, if it was lucky, and early afternoon most times (because after the shop closed at night, the owner and patrons went to the pubs down the street). People might be surprised to see a tall, almost sepulchral young man opening the sterile-looking flower shop, while others might see a petite, long-haired young woman opening the tattoo shop.

Molly Hooper was the tattoo artist and Sherlock Holmes was the florist. Molly wore plain blouses, sweaters and trousers, while Sherlock wore flashy, fancy clothes. Molly was pleasant and friendly, even to the most scarred and scary looking men, while Sherlock was snippy even to the sweetest grandmother. Molly inked the most gruesomely accurate or hideously fantastic tattoos, like a H. R. Giger on crack, whereas Sherlock raised the most delicate hothouse flowers as a personal challenge.

Molly liked flowers, but not the florist, since he was his usual rude self to her. Sherlock, for his part would’ve dismissed the tiny tattoo artist, except for her dichotomy of loving cute and pretty things, yet drawing gruesome things. He was unused to reaching out rather than pushing away, so he didn’t try.

Molly, however, felt she ought to try at least being his friend, since, well, the only person in town who seemed to actually like the florist was his slightly dotty but sweet landlady, Mrs. Hudson. So Molly would chirp in her awkward, friendly way, buying lilies for a skull and flowers tat. She bought the wilted flowers to practice drawing decaying things, and sketched the unwelcome insects in the greenhouse before destroying them.

“Why do you want to buy dead flowers from me?” Sherlock asked, partly curious and partly frustrated at the social overtures. “You could Google it, or at least wait until I’ve thrown them out.”

The brown-haired girl nodded. “I could, but Googling wouldn’t be able to hold it, turn it over in my hands. I wouldn’t get all the angles. And I’d rather not be arrested for going through your bins for some mashed-up stems and whatnot, thank you. Besides, I couldn’t smell the decaying petals if I waited too long.”

“And why would you want to do that?” the curly-haired man demanded, even though he did the same himself. But it was to ascertain the difference between true decay versus treatable disease, because to rely only on sight would be ridiculous in his line of work. “You like cute things,” he said, with a curl of the lip on “cute”.

Molly’s mouth twitched upwards. “I do,” she agreed, sketching the aphids. “But you know I’d rather draw skulls and chains because they’re fun and I’m good at it.” Then she crushed the aphids on the aptly-named butcher paper. “Hm.” And she started sketching the remains of the aphids.

“You two look like you could use a bite to eat,” Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, bustled in. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s so good of your young lady to help you get rid of those pesky bugs. How lovely.”

He sighed noisily. “She’s not _my_ —”

“Oh, no, it’s just a by-product,” Molly waved her hands, which upset the sketchpad and bug-covered paper, causing them to fall to the floor. “Sorry, I’ll clean them up.”

“No, let Mrs. Hudson do it,” Sherlock said airily, although the sharp gleam in his eyes suggested otherwise. “It’s her joy in life.”

“She’s got a dodgy hip,” Molly rolled her large eyes as she bent down to clear her mess, “for someone with perfect memory, you conveniently forget when it comes to clean-up.”

Mrs. Hudson smirked triumphantly over the bent girl. “Your lady friend’s got a better way of cleaning up. Coming home to find noxious clouds of smoke or explosions, I’m surprised you’ve got any flowers left to sell.”

He sniffed. “I always take care of the flowers,” he said with a lifted chin. “People can take care of themselves, but flowers can’t.”

The landlady smiled indulgently at the young woman who’s just finished straightening things up. “And he said he has no heart,” Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “Isn’t that the loveliest thing you’ve heard about the flowers?”

As Molly nodded, Sherlock huffed. “It’s not lovely, it’s the truth. Except for carnivorous plants like _Drosera capensis_ and the like, flowers are prey, not predators.”

“He’s romantic, that’s what,” Mrs. Hudson continued, undaunted. “Don’t you think, dear?” she looked at the other female.

“W-well,” Molly stammered, “if anyone else said it…”

Sherlock glared at the tattoo artist. “It is _not_ romantic, you take that back!”

Molly glared right back. He’s not the only one who could turn six-years-old and indignant in an instant. “ _I_ wasn’t the one who said the romantic thing in the first place! Why are you yelling at me?”

Neither noticed Mrs. Hudson as she left, smirking as she did so. Her famously dodgy hip suddenly wasn’t so dodgy, it seemed, as her stealthy exit went off as planned.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a lovely afternoon, and Molly had just worked on three men who were friends since primary school. The story behind their tattoo, however, was so sweet Molly’s heart couldn’t help but flutter. When they left, she made herself a cuppa and put that and some biscuits on a tray. Then she called her Uncle Robbie, who worked next door as a mechanic, if he wanted some tea.

“I’ve got the loveliest story,” she said when he walked in.

Her uncle, a big bear of a man and just as hairy, grinned and nodded his thanks when she offered him a cup. “’Course you do,” he said. “Who was it this time?”

As he sat down, blowing on his tea as he did so, Molly answered, “Their names were John, Mike, and Stephen. They wanted the emblem of their primary school inked on their shoulder in memory of the headmaster, who was like a grandfather to them. They’d just come from his funeral, you see, and they wanted something to remember him by. They all had photos of him, of course, but they were firm about not wanting that as their tattoo.” She smiled, and took a sip of her tea, then helped herself to a biscuit. “I think their headmaster was the nicest one I’ve heard of. He made sure they took courses that would challenge them, encouraged them to take up after school activities, let them study at his home while they were in secondary, and actually helped all of them go to uni! Can you imagine?”

Her Uncle Robbie chuckled. “Sounds like a right old grandfather. You sure he wasn’t related to any of them?”

She shook her head. “They didn’t say as much, but they all came from challenging homes, it seems. But the headmaster, Philips, he saw something in them. Mike’s a professor at Bart’s, John’s a doctor, and Stephen teaches at the primary school. I’m sure Philips was proud of them all until the day he died, even if they weren’t blood-related. All of them loved Philips so, I just wanted to hug them all!”

Uncle Robbie raised a bushy eyebrow. “Did they escape their cruel fate?”

She snorted. “Jealous, are we?” She smiled when he stuffed his face full of biscuit. “So, how’s your lady friend?” The biscuit exploded into a crumb cloud in her face, and she wiped at her face with a rag before tossing it to her uncle. “Sorry, timing, I know,” she apologized.

He chuckled, “That’s what you get for teasing your wise, handsome uncle.” She rolled her eyes again, and he blushed. Or, she’s fairly sure he’s blushing behind the thick beard and moustache, but he’s fidgety enough to show his embarrassment.

“I’ve got a wise, handsome uncle? Why didn’t you say so? Where are you hiding him?” she teased again, and he tossed the rag at her face. “Eugh. No, really, how are things with Annabella? Has she started making bearded wind chimes yet?”

“Oh my God, no,” he looked at her in horror. Annabella Stacks was the resident wind chime artist, running a business with her woodcarving sister Arabella Stacks a couple of stores down on Sherlock’s side of the street. “No, nothing like that. She’s a very good cook, you should come over some time.”

Molly dimpled. “Well, when she issues the invitation, I will. I know it’s early days yet, don’t want to be bringing the family in unless you’re serious.”

Now he rolled his eyes. “Family’s already there, what with her sister’s bein’ in the same room all the time. Can’t even put an arm around Annie without getting the eye from Arabella.” He slouched in dismay. “Is that serious enough for you?”

Molly got up and hugged her uncle. “Sorry you’re getting cockblocked by her baby sister,” she said.

Her uncle hugged her hard right back, and pulled back to look at his niece. “Speakin’ of love lives, how goes your florist?” he asked her.

She made a face. “He’s a friend. Barely. But he’s better than some.”

Uncle Robbie sighed. “Not every man’s gonna turn out like Tom, Molly,” he said seriously. “Should’ve strangled the bastard when I had the chance.”

Molly shook her head, her lips briefly twitching into a parody of a smile before it straightened out again. “I’m okay,” she said, “you go and find a quiet spot for you and Annabella, would you?”

He gave her a long look. Then he chuckled and waved as he walked out. One of these days, he and that Hudson woman would get those two silly children together, one way or another. His Molly should be happy, dammit, and if that strange Sherlock boy was the one to do it, well, he’d figure something out. As soon as he figured out how to get he and Annie away from her clingy sister, of course.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes didn’t like most of his customers. Most people in the small town would say that he didn’t like any of his customers, but they would be wrong. He liked a small number of them. He liked Cornwell Stephenson, who only made his orders over the phone to place a small bouquet of violets on his wife’s grave every month. He liked Robbie Hooper, who barely said a word while paying for his almost-daily rose for Annabella Stacks. He liked Miss Genevieve Smith, who actually had a better green thumb than himself, but was too elderly and infirm to care for her garden herself these days and paid him to do so on the weekends.

Which was where he was today, dressed in his usual fine shirt and trousers, albeit with gloves, an apron, and a wide-brimmed hat. He did have an unfortunate tendency to burn rather than tan, so the latter accessory was a token nod to that. It also allowed him to keep an eye on his customer, who had the tendency to lean further than she ought on her walker when checking on her flowers. “Miss Smith,” he scolded, catching her as she nearly fell into her rosebushes for the fourth time, “I strongly suggest that you sit and allow me to do the job you are paying for quite amply.”

The elderly woman glared at him, standing as upright as she could while regaining a firm grip on her walker, and he had to bite back a fond smile. “I’m paying you to tend my garden, not be my nanny,” she scolded him.

“Yes, Miss Smith,” the florist retorted, “but today you seem especially determined to embed yourself into that very garden. Having a death wish, are we?”

Miss Smith shot him a look of pure disgust, and he almost chortled. Then the thin woman stomped away, as much as she could with a walker, to her porch. “If you gardened as well as you spoke, I wouldn’t have as many weeds in my garden!” she shouted.

“If you walked as well as you spoke, you’d be around the world and back!” he shouted back, hiding his smile behind the wide brim of his hat. Now that she was sitting down and had no chance of flattening the flowers she was proud of, he felt a little more relieved. And, judging by the fire in her voice, she had a good week of health.

He could hear her sniff ostentatiously behind him, followed by the soft sound of sipping. He’d set the cups of fruit juice out earlier, because he didn’t want her to attempt pouring anything from a full pitcher. He may be an arse, but like hell would he try anything stupid like have a woman with less than twenty percent of her arm strength hurt herself rehydrating.

They continued to trade insults as conversation for the next half hour or so, before Miss Smith started to doze off. Sherlock continued to pull weeds and check for any signs of infestation, when he heard the plastic cup clatter to the floor. Quickly, he reached the porch and grabbed the cup before it clattered down the steps and woke her up. He frowned when he saw her shivering, even though the day was warmer than expected. He took off his gloves and put a cool hand to her forehead, then checked her pulse.

“What are you doing?” she grumbled wearily, waking up.

His pale eyes continued to search and deduce her. “How long have you had dizzy spells?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes, but relented when he glared right back. “Since yesterday,” she replied, then coughed.

“Dammit, woman, your stubbornness will kill you one of these days,” he snapped, pulling the shawl from her walker and draping it on her thin form before he carried her and the walker to the car. It might have been a good week, but apparently, the idiot day nurse hadn’t noticed any signs of illness before she left yesterday.

“You wish,” Miss Smith rasped, her eyes on the road than the young man snapping the seat belt on her, “I’ll not be buried yet.”

“I wouldn’t give your stupid nephew the pleasure,” Sherlock shot back, starting up the car. “Is he still married to the one who likes those rat-like dogs?”

She closed her eyes rather than rolling them, not a good sign. “God knows,” she muttered, “hardly bothers to call.”

He noted that her breathing was becoming more labored, much to his displeasure. “Then you should call him,” he said, “God knows he deserves a heart attack more than anyone in England.”

She chuckled, then coughed. “You did that on purpose,” she glared at him when she recovered.

“I did nothing of the sort,” he raised his thick eyebrows at her. “You’re as bad as Mrs. Hudson, accusing me of all sorts of things.”

She took a deep breath. “Probably because you are doing them,” she smirked.

“Ridiculous,” he said, lifting his chin, even as he took each and every short cut he could to reach the hospital. “She accuses me of carrying on with the mousy tattoo artist, when everyone with working eyes can see the Hooper girl has just left an abusive relationship, come to the safety of her hometown where she is related and coddled by every male who is related to her in some aspect or another, and is far too adept at wielding a sharp implement like a weapon if need be. That, and the fact that I am a heartless bastard means that there is no such relationship as Mrs. Hudson dreams up in her ‘soothers’-addled mind.”

“Don’t call yourself a bastard, it’s an insult to your mother,” Miss Smith said after far too long a pause. A quick side glance revealed that her eyes are closed again, her breathing shallow. Not good.

He shaved off three minutes to his driving time and deposited her on one of the waiting room chairs before he barked at the receptionist, “Where is your least incompetent doctor? This woman has pneumonia and needs to be treated at once.” Before the receptionist could fire back a retort, he rolled his eyes. “And please don’t tell me you’re busy, you were just on the phone with your lover, which would probably aggravate your alcoholic husband were he to find out, and there is nobody else being treated, judging by the large availability of parking spaces in the lot. Now, where is your best doctor?”

As she turned a blotchy red, she pressed a button on the intercom and shouted, “Doctor Watson!”

A short, blonde man who looked like he’d been pulled from the night shift to the day shift recently, dressed in a plaid shirt, gray cardigan, and brown trousers, ran out. “Yes, what’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes zeroing in on the elderly woman before registering the tall man at the desk.

Sherlock rattled off as he gathered up Miss Smith, “Eighty-nine years old, exhibiting signs of pneumonia with shortness of breath, spells of dizziness, coughs and chills. Unclear if it’s viral or bacterial.”

Dr. Watson blinked, then nodded. “And who are you then?” he asked, leading them to his office.

“Her gardener,” he said succinctly, making the shorter man pause. “Are you going to examine her or not?”

To his surprise, the doctor chuckled. “Ma’am, wake up,” he said gently, “can you tell me your name?”

The elderly woman looked irritated at being roused. “Miss Genevieve Smith,” she answered sharply, “why am I in hospital?”

“Your… gardener thinks you have pneumonia,” Dr. Watson said pleasantly enough, already fitting the stethoscope to his ears, “take a deep breath, please.”

She glared, but did, then coughed. Sherlock smirked at her, she glared at him, and the process repeated itself when the doctor asked her to take another deep breath. “Well?” she demanded.

“Chest x-ray,” Dr. Watson said, almost cheerfully.

“You’ll be wanting my blood like a vampire next,” she grumbled.

“I’m too young for you, Miss Smith,” he replied, “save your flirting for your young man there.”

As both the elder woman and the too-posh-to-be-a-gardener gardener sputtered like freshly-doused cats, Dr. Watson smirked at them. There was no familial resemblance between the two, but their slimness and similar attitudes made him think they were, of sorts. “Right, Mr…”

“Holmes,” Sherlock supplied.

“Holmes,” the doctor nodded, “have a seat outside while Miss Smith puts on our oh-so-fashionable gowns for her x-ray. Unless you wish to help her with it?”

As expected, the gardener fairly flew out of the office like a small child asked to clean his room. “That wasn’t very nice,” the elderly woman scolded him.

Dr. Watson smiled, as it was only a token protest. “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed, not saying aloud that she wasn’t very nice, either. “Sorry, it’s going to be chilly,” he said, deftly helping her out of her shawl, blouse and slip before covering her top in the immodest paper gown. Then he put the shawl back on as he led her to the x-ray room, through a hallway away from the main one. “Don’t want to give your Mr. Holmes more of an eyeful than he wants,” he teased.

She snorted. “Sherlock is a child,” she sniffed, “he wouldn’t know how to appreciate the female form even if it were that fabled Molly Hooper parading naked.”

The doctor paused. “Molly Hooper? The tattoo artist?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “Oh, so she is real,” she said, a little too casually for a woman short of breath.

He smirked as he placed her in front of the machine. “Stand still, please.” If she were less frail, he’d make her stand longer, but he had his scruples. “Yes, she is real,” he answered her earlier statement. “In fact, she worked on me two weeks ago. Nice girl.”

“You sound surprised,” Miss Smith noted as he bundled her back into her proper clothes.

He shrugged. “Never had a tattoo before, but I’d always thought they’d be rough, scary types, tattoo artists,” he said. “Instead, there’s this tiny girl who looks like a secretary inking me and my mates as beautifully as Michelangelo did the Sistine Chapel. Amazing.”

“Let me see,” the old woman demanded, and he chuckled, then unbuttoned his shirt and revealed the still-vivid school emblem on his shoulder. “You went to St. Jude’s in Dorchester?” she asked.

He nodded, surprised, as he buttoned up again. “How did you know?”

She smirked. “I was headmistress at the primary school here for centuries,” she said proudly, as the doctor snorted. “You’re one of Philips’ boys, aren’t you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

She gave him a look familiar to children by those of the teaching ilk. “Jonathan Philips didn’t invest in stupid boys,” she chided him. “And of course you are, you just showed me your tattoo.” She sighed, then coughed.

“Here,” Dr. Watson said, handing her a tissue and a quickly-filled cup of water. “Yes, you’re right. And your Sherlock Holmes is right, too, you do have pneumonia. Looks like bacterial, so you’ll need an antibiotic jab. Do you mind needles?”

“Not as little as you seem to,” she muttered, and he sighed.

“Right, then,” and he administered the shot when she put the cup down. “Do you have anyone at home, or would it be easier for you to stay in hospital?”

“I have a nurse at home,” she said firmly, and he nodded.

“Okay, just need you to sign some papers, and you’ll need to come back for follow-up treatments.”

“Couldn’t I just have the nurse administer them at home?” she asked.

He thought of the ungodly amount of paperwork and phone calls to be made before Miss Smith would even get a jab at home, and then shook his head. “I can make house calls,” he said, deciding to make things simpler for himself, as well as the hospital. God knew he didn’t need any more forms to fill out, or having to suss out the home nurse’s affiliations for even more forms. “Come on, let’s go to the front desk and hope that your gardener hasn’t run our receptionist out the door.”

She pretended to look offended, but coughed too hard to make that effective. “Fine,” she said, allowing the smile in spite of the pain.

A shadow of concern crossed his features, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he led her out to the lobby, where Sherlock was surprisingly quiet, sitting in the chair closest to Dr. Watson’s office.

“Beverly, Miss Smith needs to sign the forms for house calls,” Dr. Watson said.

“Miss Smith?” the receptionist repeated, took another look at the woman, and quickly and efficiently pulled out said forms. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, ma’am.”

The former headmistress narrowed her pale eyes. “Beverly Hardin, I presume,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s Beverly Jones now,” the girl said, acting like she was getting written up in the headmistress’ office rather than in charge of said woman’s health care.

Dr. Watson noted the barely-hidden glee of the so-called gardener and the gimlet-eyed stare of the elder woman. Beverly may be a twit, but she was the most reliable receptionist they’d had in a while, which said a great deal about the kinds they’d had previously. “All right, then,” he said, taking the filled forms easily before the elderly woman could make a smart remark, “I’ll see you in a week. Stay out of trouble.” He smiled pleasantly enough to make the elder woman roll her eyes and the younger man to gather her quickly to his car.

“Why did he take off his shirt?” he demanded when they were in the car.

“He made a pass at me and it was successful,” Miss Smith answered smugly, and, mortified, Sherlock Holmes raced back to her home as fast as he got to the hospital. She laughed, even though it hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

“Where are you off to, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked, seeing him making more of a mess in her kitchen two days later.

“That idiot thinks she can rely on that imbecile of a nurse to care for her, when she clearly ignored the signs of pneumonia in favor of catching a full weekend off,” he glared at the boiling soup, as if holding it responsible for a day nurse.

“Who are you talking about?” his landlady frowned, then turned down the gas on the stove, wishing she could do the same for her mercurial renter.

He moved his glare from the pot to her. “Miss Genevieve Smith,” he snapped. “Like she can take care of herself in this state, what was she thinking?”

Her mouth twitched into a fond smile before she could help herself, and he practically growled at her. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, lifting the lid off the pot to taste the soup, then grated ginger and added more salt to the proceedings. “That’ll get her drinking more water, even if she doesn’t want to,” she grinned.

“She’ll need some tea, too,” Sherlock said, less a question and more of a command.

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Not your housekeeper, dear,” she said. “And not today, Mr. Baudry’s taking me to dinner.”

“That would explain the gaudy dress, extremely red lipstick, and actual jewelry,” he muttered.

“And don’t touch my pot,” she snapped, taking it from him. “Not after you boiled God knows what in it last week.”

“I’m not going to _buy_ her tea!” he glared, outraged.

“I’m fairly sure she’s got a pot and kettle at home,” Mrs. Hudson said blithely, “and I wouldn’t trust you with that, either.” She frowned, then suggested, “Why don’t you ask Molly to come with? She’s about to close up shop, and I’d trust her tea over yours.”

“You trust -- !” he sputtered, then glared. “Fine. See if I get you tulips for your date.” He packed the still-boiling pot into a crate, then stalked out of the room.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help myself!” she called out, then smiled to herself. If getting sick was going to make Sherlock Holmes take Molly Hooper out, she would’ve gotten pneumonia herself a long time ago. But then again, she wouldn’t be on a date herself with the luscious Mr. Baudry.

Unaware of his landlady’s musings, the tall, thin man strode across the street, charged into the tattoo shop, and shouted, “You’re coming with me!”

Molly Hooper paused in her mopping up the floor, looked at the madman with the crate, and said, “No.”

“I need tea,” he stated.

The small brunette raised an eyebrow. “There’s a tea shop down the street,” she said, “this is a tattoo parlour.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to buy tea and Mrs. Hudson trusts _your_ tea than mine,” he bit out. “I have soup for Miss Smith, but not tea. I. Need. Tea.” She raised both eyebrows this time. “Please.” The word was said tersely, but sincerely.

She nodded briefly. “Let me finish up here, and I’ll grab some leaves,” she said. She was thankful that he stayed quiet and let her do exactly that, because she thought that she’d knock him over with the mop if he said anything else stupid. Besides, she thought it was sweet that he referred to her as “Miss Smith”, rather than “a customer”. And if it was the same Miss Smith she was thinking of, it seemed fitting that Sherlock would care for a prickly person similar to himself. She’d never had the legend herself as a headmistress, as she’d retired before Molly entered primary school, but she’d certainly heard stories.

“Hurry up, we don’t have all day!” he called out when she ducked into the kitchen, and she rolled her eyes. Honestly. And of course, he barely waited before she locked up properly to stalk back across the street to unlock his car.

She raced on her shorter legs to catch up, then practically threw herself into the seat in the effort to save time. “What are you doing?” she squealed when he opened the car door, knelt, and pried her legs open. Thankfully, she was wearing her denim jeans, but still!

Without answering, he dumped the crate between her feet. “Make sure it doesn’t tip over,” he said, and walked to his side of the car.

Her face red, she glared. “Most people would add ‘please’ and ‘thank you’,” she said when he started the car.

“ ‘Please and thank you’,” he intoned flatly.

She sighed. Well, at least that was something. She’d scold him further if he didn’t already look so tense. Well. It was sweet that he cared so much for another person. She wondered if Miss Smith cared as much back.

Molly wasn’t sure if the former headmistress lived closer than she thought, or Sherlock simply drove like a demon. Either way, they arrived at a nice little country house with a fair bit of land in less time than she expected, and he curtly pried open her legs again before she could pick up the crate.

“Miss Smith!” he shouted as he practically stormed the castle, er, country home. “Wake up!”

Molly didn’t even have the luxury of rolling her eyes as she raced to catch up. Well, the idiot would certainly wake the dead with that booming baritone, she thought. “Sherlock!” she hissed when she caught up. “Wouldn’t she need her rest?” she asked.

“She’s slept through most of the day, if I’m not mistaken,” he answered, making himself at home in the kitchen. He was already ladling the soup into a bowl when he noticed her just standing there. “Don’t just stand there, boil some water or do something useful.”

She shook her head. “A lesser person would let you serve her with a black eye,” she said.

“Good thing you’re not a lesser person,” he said, which was the closest he’d ever come to complimenting her in all the time she’d known him.

She merely twitched her lips into a smile, and looked for tea cups. She frowned when she found them in the fridge. “Is she--?”

“She’s incapable of reaching the cupboards,” Sherlock interrupted her, “and they’d stay cleaner there than on the counter, since neither she nor the day nurse washes up. If you don’t mind, we’ll be checking on her every night, since the day nurse refuses to renegotiate her contract to lengthen her stay, I can’t imagine why.”

Molly snorted. “I’m sure,” she said, putting cups on the tray that already held a bowl of soup. “And I don’t mind.”

For some reason, he blinked, then nodded. “Dr. Watson will be coming by this Sunday to administer her next dose,” he said. “I should give you a copy of her house key, since I don’t expect you to know how to pick locks, and the day nurse has Sundays off.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, although she kept her knowledge of lockpicking to herself. She honestly didn’t want to be arrested for trying to help someone, would she? “How do you have a copy?”

“I picked the day nurse’s pocket,” he said simply before they reached the woman’s door, “although I do know how to pick locks. It’s just a bother having to do it every weekend.”

She giggled, although her merriness disappeared when she saw the forbidding face of the pale woman on the bed. Yes, Miss Smith was certainly ill, but she had the aura of someone who could just as well pull her by the ear if Molly so much as twitched wrong.

“She certainly is pretty,” the elderly woman commented shrewdly, then coughed. “Knew you wouldn’t have a plain one.”

They both blushed, for different reasons. “She’s _intelligent_ ,” Sherlock argued, “for God’s sake, you should appreciate that first, you shallow creature.”

Miss Smith fell into a laughing fit, then launched into a coughing fit. “Give me that soup, I’m sure you’d rather I burnt my tongue than use it on your sensitive spirit.”

“Shut up,” he said, which was his way of surrendering, Molly noted. He served her as efficiently and carefully as a butler, but his eyes were more discerning than a detective’s.

Molly served them all tea, although she was surprised to find that Sherlock didn’t add his usual two lumps of sugar, and he served Miss Smith’s tea just as plainly. “How do you two know each other?” Molly asked, curious.

“I’m her gardener,” Sherlock answered, while the old woman answered just as quickly, “He’s my lover.”

Molly looked confused, then laughed at Sherlock’s glare at the older woman. “If you weren’t my customer, I’d slap you silly,” he gritted out between his teeth.

“You don’t slap your customers silly,” Molly corrected him, “you punch them out.”

“Really?” Miss Smith looked at him, interested.

He looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, then regained his usual snottiness. “They asked for it,” he said.

Molly sighed. “Sherlock, you’re supposed to let Detective Inspector Lestrade take care of people like that,” she said. “It’s his job.”

“He wasn’t there, I was,” Sherlock retorted. “And he got them. Eventually. After they paid for ruining my plants.” He lifted his chin, as if daring her to argue.

“Good thing they also paid for Mrs. Hudson’s bins, you dropped them on those often enough,” Molly shook her head.

“If I were a younger woman, I’d kiss you,” Miss Smith declared.

Sherlock retorted, “If you were a healthier woman, I’d let you.” Molly gaped. Then he glanced at Molly. “I think she’d slap me first rather than kiss me.”

The elder woman nodded agreeably. “I would, just to teach you a lesson.” Then she winked at Molly. “But I’d avoid his nose and teeth, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m so glad you’re your age,” Molly said faintly, “I think you’d be very confusing otherwise.” Then she blushed, and stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--!”

“I’m disappointed,” Miss Smith said, sounding very disappointed, indeed. “I’d thought I’d made it clear I was a lesbian, nothing confusing about that.”

“And do stop flirting with Molly, you know she’s not inclined that way,” Sherlock scolded the older woman, who stuck her tongue out at him. “I only let you flirt with Dr. Watson because he’s happily married, even if he is a closeted bisexual.”

“Dr. Watson,” Molly repeated, “Dr. _John_ Watson?”

“Oh yes, you tattooed him,” Miss Smith said, turning to her again. “That was a lovely job you did on him. Were his friends equally fit?”

“Er, no,” Molly fidgeted, “I’m afraid Mike was significantly larger, and Stephen’s turned to stress-drinking now that he’s taking over as headmaster, poor thing. How did you not, when you were headmistress?”

Miss Smith smirked, and Sherlock groaned. “I had other… diversions,” she purred, before falling into another coughing fit.

“Oh my God,” Molly breathed, even as she refilled the older woman’s cup.

“Don’t worry, I got rid of her riding crop months ago,” Sherlock glared at the older woman, who grinned unrepentantly. “I suspect ‘Genevieve Smith’ isn’t her real name, either, but out of respect for my elders, I’m refraining from doing a thorough search.”

“You’re no fun,” Miss Smith pouted, “don’t worry, I won’t touch your young woman.” Her mottled hand on Molly’s belied her words, and she corrected herself, “Well, not like that.”

Sherlock snatched her hand off Molly’s as if it were a hot poker. “Behave yourself,” he snapped. “And shut up,” he added when he saw her taking a breath, shoving her tea at her.

Miss Smith drank her tea carefully, then smirked when she returned the cup. “You really are no fun, Sherlock Holmes,” she said. Then she pulled the covers up. “All right, you two go home, I might as well attempt to regain my health if nobody’s doing anything interesting.” And she closed her eyes firmly.

Sherlock made a face at Molly, who shook her head. She thought Sherlock was strange, but apparently that wasn’t a scratch on Miss Smith. And she really was glad that Miss Smith was elderly, because she was certain that were she younger, she’d probably be gorgeous and definitely make a move on Molly. And Molly wasn’t sure she’d reject it straight off. If Miss Smith were anything like Sherlock, that is.

“You were thinking about it, weren’t you?” he accused her when they got in the car.

“What? No!” she denied vehemently, then sighed, keeping her eyes forward, because it was more than a little embarrassing. “Well, a little. I can’t get past the age thing and, well, the being mostly straight thing, though.”

To her surprise, he said nothing for a while, just drove. A few minutes later, he broke the silence. “She was beautiful when she was younger,” Sherlock said softly, confirming her suspicions. “They said she was a heartbreaker, but nobody knew why. The majority still doesn’t, by the way,” he added with a sharp glance at her.

She shook her head. “Don’t worry,” she said, then looked back at the road. “It’s her life. I understand.”

She didn’t notice the quick glance, and the softened features. “I’m not sure if it would be wise for you to accompany me in the future.”

Now she looked at him, who was looking determinedly at the road. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, “you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Miss Smith. Unlike some people, I can behave myself, even if nobody else does.”

He snorted. “Your words imply that Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know how to behave, either.”

She giggled. “She’s going out with Mr. Baudry, who even you know is an even worse flirt than Miss Smith. Of _course_ she doesn’t know how to behave herself.”

“I’d be offended on her behalf if that weren’t true,” he said loftily.

“Besides, I make an amazing cup of tea,” she said, “and I’ve heard about the teapot incident from last week, too.”

“Why is this such an abominably small town?” Sherlock groaned. “Doesn’t anyone have anything else to gossip about?”

Molly grinned. “Even if this were the heart of London, you’d still do something incredibly amazing or ridiculous or both, and people would know about it,” she said.

“They would not,” he retorted, but there was a pleased look on his face.

They were silent for a few more minutes, during which the scenery passed at a much more sedate pace than it was going, and they pulled up to a stop in front of Molly’s shop.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Molly said as she got out. “And Sherlock?” She waited until he was looking at her. “I’m glad Miss Smith has a friend like you.” He looked stunned, which was what she expected, but was still a bit saddened by. “Good night.”

She closed the car door, but his car didn’t move until she’d locked her own door behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

It was only lunch time, and he thought he’d be getting a heart attack. Then again, Robbie Hooper was worried sick since last night, and the late call from the night before didn’t really reassure him. And what his niece just spouted sounded like madness. Or she was proposing to give him a heart attack. “You’re goin’ ta see who again?” the large bearded man gaped at her.

“Miss Genevieve Smith,” Molly repeated patiently. “She’s sick, and Sherlock’s her friend, and he asked me to help.”

“Oh my God,” he said, in a tone not unlike Molly’s last night, and sat down heavily on the empty chair. “Are ye sure ye want to go back there tonight? Or any night? Sherlock’s not done something horrible so that ye have to go, did he?” The bear-like man looked honestly worried. “Or did she bewitch ya somehow?”

“What, no!” Molly gasped. “Granted, she is a bit strange—”

“Bit nothin’,” her uncle grumbled. “She was the terror of the town, she was. Surprised they let her stay headmistress all those years, but I suppose it was better than letting her loose upon England and having the actual Queen step down in favor o’ Miss Smith.”

Molly looked at him strangely. “What was she like as headmistress?” she asked carefully.

“Ah,” he said, then paused. “Well, she was beautiful, on first glance,” he said after staring into nothing, or the past, whichever. “Even with her stiff, old-fashioned long dresses, an’ severe face, an’ dark hair pulled up into a bun, she was beautiful. But she could look at a body an’ tear ‘em to shreds or make ‘em fall in love with her, and God help the child that didn’t step to quick enough. Some kids thought she’d came from the military, and it wasn’t harsh enough for her.” He grinned at her, and she grinned back. “Others said she was an actress from someplace else, and that’s why she was so beautiful. And others thought that she came straight from hell to pull them down there.”

Molly shook her head. “What did you think?”

“She was lovely to look at, but, I dunno, a bit unpredictable. You never knew if you were going to get the good witch or the bad witch, if you know what I mean. A bit like your friend Sherlock there.”

His niece blinked, then laughed. The comparison, from what she could see, wasn’t too far off. Except Sherlock Holmes was the opposite of flirtatious, which was what Miss Smith was, given the right type of person. And, unfortunately, it seemed for her, she was that. Then she sighed. “Yes, well, Sherlock’s her friend, too, like I said. So that’s why I’m going over there. And so far, she’s been the good witch.”

Her Uncle Robbie chuckled. “That’s my girl,” he said, reaching over and patting her on the head, which made her scrunch her face up, “you know how to get even the growliest of ‘em purring in your hands.”

You don’t know the half of it, she thought, but aloud, she said, “Well, now that you know, you can leave off the panicked texts, right?”

He blushed. “How was I supposed to react when I heard you’d gone off without a word? Wasn’t sure you’d come back in one piece!”

She stood up and hugged him, and he hugged her right back. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s not like last time. I trust Sherlock, and so should you.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I’d trust him more if he didn’t do so many stupid things like bring you to the headmistress’ place.” The way he said “headmistress’ place” was not unlike how most people would say “creepy haunted house”. Perhaps to him, it was the same thing.

“Stop it, it’s fine,” she argued, “or I wouldn’t be going back. You know that, right?”

He gave her a good long look, then nodded. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Ye’d better ask for a chest of gold, or a good snog, or something for your efforts!”

Molly looked scandalized, then laughed, and so did he. “I’d only ask for money if I’m tattooing her,” she said, and snorted at the gobsmacked look on his face. She’s fairly certain she wouldn’t be so cavalier about joking on her own headmaster, but then, she couldn’t honestly think of tattooing him, he was too much of a flighty, but kindly, old man. Whereas Miss Smith, she could honestly see herself tattooing, and wasn’t that something?

Her uncle pulled her in for another quick hug, then let her go. “All right, but I’m textin’ ya tonight, ya know?”

She nodded. “And I’ll text back. You’d better get back to work, Uncle, I know you have at least three vehicles that need fixing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he saluted her sarcastically, and she smiled. “Just, you take care o’ yourself, okay?”

“I will,” she nodded earnestly.

A few hours later, and Molly was looking at the pictures in the sitting room, since she actually had time to do so, as opposed to the mad rush last night. She saw the pictures, and wow, Miss Smith was certainly gorgeous. She could understand Sherlock’s and Uncle Robbie’s descriptions and Miss Smith’s behavior now. If Molly looked a tenth as gorgeous, she supposed she could get away with acting like that, too. Then she giggled. No, she was already fending off idiots who were hitting her, and she didn’t even look like that! She supposed it came of being female in a male-dominated job, and figured it would probably be even worse if she looked like Miss Smith did in her older pictures.

“Molly! TEA!” she heard Sherlock bellowing, and raced into the kitchen. Guess she didn’t have as much time to gawk as she thought.

“Fine, fine,” she said, “but Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Could you please sit between me and Miss Smith?”

He raised his eyebrows, then nodded curtly. “All right.”

To her shock, however, he took that to mean he should behave like a human shield between the two of them. Miss Smith took it like a game, teasing Molly and taunting Sherlock. Sherlock, however, seemed to be deadly serious, and Molly sighed.

“Sherlock, it’s okay,” she put her hand on his arm, and he stared down at it. “She’s your friend, and she’s sick. She’s not the enemy.”

“No?” he frowned, raising his gaze to meet hers. “Then what is she to you?”

“A friend of my friend, which means she’s my friend.” Then she peered around Sherlock’s body, which seemed to block most of her view. Interesting, but not important right now. “Right?”

The old woman made a face. “Will I have to behave when I’m better?”

“Yes,” Molly and Sherlock chorused. “Not like you’re behaving now,” Sherlock muttered.

“Fine,” Miss Smith said, just as sullenly. “Friends.”

Molly looked at her, then at Sherlock, and laughed. They both had the same petulant look on their faces. She’s fairly sure they’re not related, but goodness, they’re certainly birds of a feather. “Molly Hooper, nice to meet you,” she stuck her hand out to shake.

And Sherlock was back in her face again, grabbing her hand away. “Don’t let her touch you!” he hissed.

“Sherlock!” Molly stared at him.

“Yes, Sherlock, why can’t she touch me? I’m simply a harmless, bed-ridden old woman,” Miss Smith said in an overly-breathless voice.

He turned to glare at her. “You, stop it. You’re not helping.” Then he grabbed Molly by the shoulders. “She won’t stop touching once she starts. She’s lost three other day nurses that I know of like that, and one of them was a man.”

“I knew what he liked,” the old woman smirked.

“Why doesn’t she do that do you?” Molly asked.

They looked at each other, then made a face. “He’s pretty, but it would be like molesting family,” Miss Smith said after a few moments. “Although I’m fairly certain we’re not related. I think.”

Sherlock sighed. “We’re not. There’s no genetic indicators as such, and I’m sure a DNA test would agree. Still, she’s right. That would be gross.” And, lest he sound any more like a five-year-old, he added, “Besides, she’s gay. Not her type.”

Miss Smith and Molly snorted. “Anyways. Friends. Hello!” Molly waved around Sherlock’s body.

Miss Smith smirked, then waved back. “Hello.”

Sherlock exhaled, then sat Molly back in her seat before sitting down himself. Between the two women, of course. “Drink your soup,” he admonished the elder woman, who primly sipped her soup.

“I feel a bit like Pyramus and Thisbe,” Miss Smith remarked, “albeit the Shakespeare version. Sherlock makes an excellent wall.” She sat up straight, forgetting her illness. “Repeat after me: ‘In the same interlude it doth befall / That I, one Snout by name, present a wall.’ ”

He narrowed his eyes. “Shut. Up.”

“ ‘It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord’,” Molly grinned at him.

“ ‘And thou, O Wall, O sweet, O lovely Wall, / That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine. / Thou Wall, O Wall, O sweet and lovely Wall, / Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne!’ ” Miss Smith prompted.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at them both. “Is that Shakespeare? Really?”

“Make a hole in the wall, Sherlock,” Molly said, holding her fingers up in an “okay” sign. He rolled his eyes but did so. “ ‘Thanks, courteous Wall, Jove shield the well for this!’ ” she beamed.

“Which play is this?” he asked.

“ ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’,” Molly answered. “Did you delete that, or not get around to it?”

“Comedy?” he asked. She nodded. “Hm. Yes, never got around to it. I’ll rectify that soon enough.”

“Or tonight,” Miss Smith said. “Second bookshelf to your left, third shelf from the top, alphabetical order.”

He pursed his lips, then went to the bookshelf, and there the slim volume was. He returned to his seat quickly and rapidly flipped through the pages, his eyes flickering over as if barely glancing at them. “You bothered to memorize this?” he murmured to Molly.

She nodded. “It’s a funny, strange play. Well, there’s a play within a play, there’s romantic comedy, and there’s the Fae folk.” She shrugged helplessly at his curious look to her phrasing. “I don’t dare speak of them loosely for fear of my immortal soul.”

“You’re not quoting Shakespeare,” he noted.

“Paraphrasing regarding different folk,” she agreed. “But are you even reading that?”

“I’d rather be Puck,” he decided, closing the playbook with a snap.

“Would you really?” Miss Smith leaned forward. “Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else is stupid.”

Miss Smith sighed. “Pity you never went to my primary school, you were obviously deprived,” she said. She snorted at his scandalized look, then coughed. After a good number of sips of water, she went on, “Why is Puck smarter than everyone else?”

“He’s not in love with anyone, and he gets the last word.”

Molly would hit her head on the desk if she could, but since she can’t, she looked up at the ceiling. “There’s honestly more to the play than that.”

“It’s completely ridiculous!” he threw up his hands, and, by token, the book, which flew out of his hands and hit the curtains. “I mean, there’s the ‘duke of Athens’, is that even a real title? And his marriage to the queen of the Amazons, which, according to legend, would be laughable, like Miss Smith marrying Mr. Baudry. Besides, the duke was stupid.” Molly snorted, and he went on, “And worse, there’s a love, not triangle, more the shape of the number four, and they’re all behaving like idiots. Even the fairy royalty isn’t spared the idiocy, they’re fighting over whether they should have a threesome with a young prince or not!”

“That’s not how it goes, Sherlock,” Molly hissed, while Miss Smith smirked. “Hush,” she glared at the smirking older woman.

“Yes, it is,” he continued doggedly, “and Puck, while seemingly making mistakes, drugs the whole lot as well as the fairy queen. Good on him.” Molly rolled her eyes. “And after the drugs, even after everyone in the forest acts stupid, somehow, everyone sorts themselves out and live ‘happily ever after’,” he throws his fingers up in quotes. “And then Puck breaks the fourth wall, talks to the audience, and tells them to take drugs.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Molly punched him in the shoulder. She glared when he grinned at her. “You’re an ass.”

“No, that’s Bottom,” he corrected her, and she punched him again. “ ‘Though she be but little, she is fierce’ indeed,” he grinned.

“Shut up,” she glared. Then she grabbed him and started shoving him out the room. “I’m sorry to leave so abruptly, but if he doesn’t drive me home soon, I’m going to smother him,” she smiled sweetly at the older woman, remembering to pick up the tea tray.

“Good night, sweet friends,” the elder woman waved, then pulled up her covers. She could still hear them going at it, more like Beatrice and Benedick than, say, Helena and Demetrius. “ ‘What fools these mortals be’,” she smiled, then closed her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the week passed as Sherlock devoured (and destroyed) Shakespeare’s comedies one by one. “How is ‘The Merchant of Venice’ a comedy?” he demanded of the elderly woman that Sunday. “There’s nothing funny about a gay businessman pining after a friend who’d rather woo a woman! Nor about a vengeful taxman effectively losing both his livelihood and his identity at the hands of his tormentor! Out of all the characters, why doesn’t Shylock get the happy ending?”

“The word ‘comedy’ meant something different in Shakespeare’s time,” Miss Smith repeated wearily, having gone through the same argument over “Pericles” Thursday night. “You’ve read the commentaries at home, you should know.”

“And the rampant religious bullying? Detestable,” he folded himself into a sullen knot on the chair.

“Please discuss ‘Merchant’ with Sherlock, or I will brain myself with the teapot,” Molly begged when she walked in with the tea tray.

“I almost liked Portia, until she showed how merciless she was in her so-called Christianity,” he glared. “They’re all horrible, the whole lot of them, and I don’t understand why it’s classified as a comedy and not a ‘problem play’. The whole damn thing is problematic.”

“That’s because you’re looking at it from a twenty-first century viewpoint,” Miss Smith said gently, once she had her fill of soup. “And one of surprisingly impartial justice.” She tilted her head. “Did you know Antonio was gay before or after the commentaries?”

“Before,” he muttered into his knees, still pulled up to his face. “Obvious.”

“Not so obvious to a lot of readers, or even directors,” the elder woman noted. “Did you know I cried the first time I saw the ending of the play?” They both looked at her, surprised. “When I was young like you two, I saw it performed at a small theater. Unlike you, I hadn’t read the whole play, well, I’d skimmed it a bit, but hadn’t gotten to the end, decided I didn’t want to spoil myself. And unlike you, I was already familiar with Shakespeare’s happier plays and expected it to be the same.” She shook her head. “I really should’ve read the whole thing through. I’m afraid I was like Sherlock, indignant and rowdy, and I suppose if I hadn’t been such a striking-looking young thing, I would’ve been tossed out on my ear. But the worst part was, I was completely on the villain’s side, or at least, the villain according to Shakespeare. So, like a complete naïf, I burst into tears when the actor playing Shylock was being marched right past me, going to his forced baptism like any other man going to the gallows. Because, as Sherlock rightly noted, it was pretty much the same thing, and while I’ve seen child baptisms being celebrated, that was the worst desecration of a celebration that I’d seen.” Her lips were trembling towards the end, her large pale eyes suspiciously shiny, and it was obvious that it still made an impact on her.

“I’m so sorry,” Molly rushed in to hug her, then handed over a tissue.

“Thank you,” Miss Smith smiled a watery smile, then blew her nose.

“Why didn’t you hug me?” Sherlock pouted. “I felt just as bad, and I didn’t even see it!”

Molly smiled, then hugged him around his bony knees and shoulders. Honestly, if he weren’t so tall and deep-voiced, he would so be a five-year-old. “Better?” she asked.

The knocking on the door reminded everyone of the appointment. Sherlock dropped his earlier petulance, unfolded himself, and answered, “Coming!” in such an imperious way that Molly thought he’d read far too many plays to be that dramatic. Oh, who was she kidding, he was always like that!

She made the mistake of looking at Miss Smith with those thoughts, and found them mirrored on the elder woman’s face. Miss Smith started to smile, and so did Molly, leading to a giggle, and then to full-blown guffawing by the time Sherlock and Dr. Watson returned.

“Oh, what is it now?” Sherlock pouted as Molly looked at him and doubled over in laughter.

Dr. Watson set down his case, then sat down on the bed. “Must be lucky you, then,” the doctor smirked, then turned to the giggling and coughing Miss Smith. “Guess I can see you’re doing better, Miss,” he raised an eyebrow.

She sniffled, then drew herself up. “Mind your manners, you horrible flirt,” she said, which only made Molly whimper, she was laughing so hard.

“Women,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, then poked at the whimpering, giggling girl on the chair. “Are you all right?” he frowned.

Molly had to get her breath back, but she did. “Yes,” she wheezed, while the doctor was doing a similar calm-down on Miss Smith. “Oh, that was good,” she wiped her eyes, then her nose. “Ow, no, really,” she smiled when Sherlock continued to frown at her when she rubbed her stomach, sore from laughing so hard. “You should get a good laugh once in a while, really.”

“Certainly not by those so-called comedies, and your behavior doesn’t seem to recommend it,” he growled, sitting in his usual spot between herself and the bed. Then he turned to the doctor. “How is she?”

“Elevated pulse, shortness of breath, but that’s to be expected after a good laugh,” Dr. Watson said. “Good to see you, Ms. Hooper.”

She ducked her head. “How’s the tattoo feeling?”

He smiled. “Healed nicely. Hope you don’t mind I showed it off a bit to this one here,” he tilted his head at Miss Smith, who winked at her.

Molly laughed and Sherlock made a face. “I don’t mind,” the tattoo artist said, “she thinks you’re fit.”

“Thank you,” the doctor smiled at his patient, the smile being a bright, sunny thing. “Good job for you I’m a happily married man.”

“Didn’t stop you from taking off your shirt,” Sherlock muttered, making Molly snort and Miss Smith smirk.

Dr. Watson, for his part, merely chuckled and took Miss Smith’s pulse, followed by a blood pressure check. “Okay, deep breaths, love,” he said, breathing on the metal bell before placing it on her back.

“Sure you don’t want to put it on my chest?” Miss Smith raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock flapped his hand at her like a madman. “Shut off those pheromones, you ridiculous woman!” he glared. “He’s your doctor, not your playmate.”

Miss Smith only giggled, then coughed a bit. Dr. Watson glared at Sherlock, which the florist thought was unfair, then smiled at his unrepentant patient. “Inhale.” Pause. “Exhale.” Pause. “Inhale.” Pause. “Exhale.” Then he nodded, and scribbled something on a small notebook he’d pulled from his pocket. “Seems your good spirits are helping you along. Not to mention Miss Hooper’s good tea, I’m sure.”

Both the women are beaming at the doctor, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you would stop flirting with them, I’m sure Miss Smith would appreciate her medicine.”

Dr. Watson sighed heavily, then pulled out a small vial, followed by a needle. “Ready?”

The elder woman sighed back, holding out her left arm. “If you must.”

It was over in less than a minute, but Molly found himself holding the elder woman’s right hand. “Are you okay?” she asked her.

“You really are a sweet girl,” Miss Smith said, then sighed and leaned back, ignoring Sherlock’s mutinous glare.

Dr. Watson chuckled. “Here, have a cuppa,” he said, refilling her tea.

It was nice and quiet, aside from Miss Smith’s shallow breathing in between sips. “Oh, the three of you look so lovely, it’s like a visual orgy in my room,” she sighed fondly

The disgruntled florist made a face, then stalked out of the room like a freshly-doused cat. The blonde doctor smiled, then let out a high-pitched giggle, one that was, to Molly’s ears, too cute for words, incongruous to his flirty, adult persona.

Molly couldn’t help but smile at the sound, but tried to look sternly at the grinning patient. “Miss Smith, please try to behave,” she said, “I’m fairly sure that’s inappropriate on so many levels.”

“I’m old, I’ve got to have some joy in life,” the thin elderly woman shrugged.

Molly rolled her eyes, then left in search of Sherlock.

The old woman dropped her saucy smile for a canny look at the doctor. “What do you think?” she asked. “Are they impossible?”

He looked thoughtfully at the empty doorway. “They’re very cute,” he said, then turned to look at her. “Would you like to start a pool on when they’ll actually snog?”

“I was thinking ‘shag’, but that might take forever,” Miss Smith said. “Fine. You’re on.” She held out her hand and he shook it.

Then he chuckled. “I’ll say three months from now.”

The elderly woman raised an aristocratic eyebrow at him. “Really? I was thinking I could get them to do it in one.”

He snorted, then pulled out his notebook again. “Really? All right.” He scribbled it down on a different page than his notes on her health. “And Miss Smith? A proper kiss, none of that rom-com, tripping-and-mashing-their-faces-together sort of thing.” He wasn’t surprised to see the older woman make a face. “Ah, ah, ah, none of that. One month, you said.”

“If you’re going to put ridiculous restrictions on it, I’ll make it two.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, crossing the original number out and writing “2” above. Or something like that. “But only for you.”

“Pity you’re faithfully married,” she smirked.

He shook his head, smiled, and gathered his things. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Oh, it is now,” she smiled back, finishing her tea.


	7. Chapter 7

Somehow, the doctor wasn’t surprised to see the tall florist shoving a large hat onto the petite tattoo artist while she was pulling on thick gloves. It would be like the pompous stick to drag people into whatever he was doing, pity for Miss Smith’s wager that it wasn’t romance. This should be interesting, he thought.

Molly looked up from under the wide-brimmed hat to see the doctor walking out to meet them. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, Miss Smith’s improving at her pace,” he nodded, “and as long as she takes care of herself, she should be doing fine. Have a good day, Miss Hooper, Mr. Holmes.”

“It’s Molly,” she said, sticking out her gloved hand to shake, “I think we’re past all that now.”

“John,” he agreed, inwardly grinning at Sherlock’s somewhat possessive looming behind her, rather than joining the handshake festivities. So he merely waved at the taller man in his usual friendly manner. “See you all next Sunday.” He walked off, and Molly smiled to see that he got on a bicycle, strapping the case to his back before pushing off.

“It’s just pulling weeds, right?” she asked, turning to face Sherlock. “You know I don’t do well with taking care of living plants.”

“Of course,” he said. Then he pointed to what looked like a monstrous bush, similar to the one surrounding the castle in Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty”, looming nearby the apple tree. “You have the privilege of weeding the area of anything that isn’t grass,” he said, handing over a well-used plastic bucket. “Tools are inside.”

She looked, and there were a sickle, a machete, and a small pick axe. “Are you kidding me?” she glared at him. “You spent all this time on the pretty side but never bothered to take a whack at that monstrosity?”

“Green thumb,” he glared back, “I can’t seem to kill the damn thing. In fact, I might have accidentally had a hand in making it grow worse than ever.” Molly groaned. “I think you’d have better luck.”

“With a weed-whacker and chem spray, not this,” she pulled out a machete. “Really?”

“Miss Smith is old-fashioned and pro-organic, doesn’t hold by gas-powered or chemical anything, and I abide by her rules,” he looked at her levelly.

She glared at him. “Fine,” she said, “of _course_ you make the tiny girl rather than the sturdy doctor take care of it.”

“Not his job,” Sherlock said, already crouching down to inspect the hedge for pruning, “besides, he’s gone, and you’re off today.”

She grumbled, “I’ll be collecting my bloody chest of gold.” And she stomped off, looking ready to murder.

He sighed, then shook his head. Why would she suddenly want to be rich? Deciding to drop that line of thought, he went back to the hedge, which made infinitely more sense.

Forty-five minutes later, while Molly was taking the word “pruning” to a whole new level on the lower right side of The Monster (because “bush” sounded too cute and small for something as horrifically huge and out-of-control as this thing), she was startled when she heard Sherlock yelling behind her. She almost dropped the machete into the bowels of The Monster, but managed to hang on to it. “What?” she barked, then groaned as she stood up.

“Water break,” the tall, skinny man answered calmly, holding out a large bottle of water while standing safely four feet away from her machete arm. “Don’t want you getting dehydrated and passing out. You’re doing well so far.” Sherlock’s own bottle was in his large apron pocket, joined by other tools and a pair of gloves.

She huffed, then groaned some more as she dropped the machete into the bucket and reached for the water bottle. For all that he was covered up as she was, Sherlock looked maddeningly cool compared to herself. “Are the apples ripe yet?” she asked when he plopped himself down under the shade of the apple tree. She joined him, then untied her hat from her head.

He shook his head. “It’s a Granny Smith,” he winced at the obvious pun the owner had in mind, “which means it requires a warm summer and sunny autumn. I suppose that what she gets for getting a fruit tree originating from Australia and forcing it to grow here.”

“Mmm, but she’s willful, so I suppose it suits her,” Molly mused, before gulping down more water. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“When did you start gardening for Miss Smith?”

His eyes glazed over a bit, then he answered, “About five years ago.” Then he frowned. “Dammit. I told the doctor she was eighty-nine, but that’s how old she was when I started working the weekends here.”

“She’s _ninety-four_?” Molly’s eyebrows went up. “Good Lord. And she’s still a handful!”

He smirked. “If we’re lucky, we’d be so energetic at that age, should we reach it. I don’t doubt she’s looking forward to torture me further with what she thinks as my ‘stilted education’,” he made a face.

Molly laughed. “We’ve all got areas we’re strong and weak in. Goodness knows, I’ll probably develop bulging biceps and triceps after today!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Doubtful. More likely you’ll be limping and groaning in pain from overworking much unused muscles.” He pursed his lips briefly. “You should probably adjust your seated posture to take the strain off your back muscles.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but unlike some tall, male people, I don’t have the upper body strength to sit like a proper lady and chop the limbs off The Monster at the same time.”

“I’m not asking you to ‘sit like a proper’,” he scowled, then interrupted himself, “did you just capitalize that?”

Molly grinned. It was a bit manic, but then, putting latent bloodthirsty tendencies to good use seemed to have that effect on her face. “Yes. Because it is The Monster. If you had a go at it, you know what I mean.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the monstrosity looming nearby, with a small chunk of its lower branches now missing. “Yes, I do.” After downing another third of his bottle, he got to his feet quicker than Molly thought possible, and held a hand out. “Well, back to work.”

She groaned, but grabbed his hand and allowed herself to be pulled up. “How much longer will I have to chop at it?” she asked.

“Until sunset, I suppose,” he said.

She inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly. “She’s got to have an axe somewhere, do you think I could borrow it?” she asked. “A machete isn’t doing the trick.”

He sighed, then led her to the shed. There were some wicked-looking tools in there, and not all of them were of the gardening variety. “Don’t ask,” he said.

Molly’s dark brown eyes were wide, but she shook her head. “Wasn’t going to,” she said. The fact that both regular and irregular tools appeared to be in working condition made Molly a little twitchy. Thankfully, however, the axe was in excellent shape, and she went to work on The Monster with a vengeance.

Said vengeance took a break every hour, one of them being a visit to the loo. Still, Molly was glad to see the sky darkening into a warmer shade of orange, because she could barely feel her fingers. That didn’t bode well for her job, or for the possibility of a flying axe. Molly decided to call it quits with a weary yell, “Sherlock!”

“Yes?”

“I’m done! I can’t feel my fingers and my hands are humming!”

He turned around with a frown. “Humming? Oh.” He loaded his tools into the large apron pocket, then walked toward her. “Stay there, I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh good,” Molly said faintly, then frowned. Take care of what?

When he reached her side, Sherlock put the axe into the bucket, followed by the gloves and her hat. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said approvingly, looking at the damage to the monstrous growth.

She blushed. “Thanks, I think.” Then she wondered why she was blushing, since it was an odd compliment.

“Come on, let’s get back into town and feed you up,” he said briskly, “you look about ready to fall over. I know a place that owes me, well, they won’t kick me out and they certainly wouldn’t kick you out. They have the most amazing steak,” and he went on to clean off their tools, check on Miss Smith (who was dozing peacefully), and then load his weary coworker into the car.

She slept on the way there, and it was a good thing that Sherlock ordered for them both, because she couldn’t think straight, she was so tired. Thankfully for her still-sore hands, he cut up the steak into bite-sized pieces, and she was too tired to be embarrassed or insulted by that. Instead, she enjoyed her steak and mashed potatoes like a lovely, delicious dream. He dug into his fish and chips with the same amount of gusto, and it was a pleasant evening, to her bemused surprise.

He dropped her off at her shop, with an admonition, “Take a bath with Epsom salt, and make sure you have a couple of paracetamol pills next to your bed. If you’re in this much pain now, it won’t be pleasant tomorrow.”

She forced herself to make a bath with said salt, but completely forgot about the pills before managing to pull on clean clothes and fall into bed.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, Molly woke up with every single muscle screaming in pain. She swore, then she groaned. After a minute or two of just breathing and lying there, she realized it was just her arms, back, and thighs that were in pack. It still wasn’t pleasant. She repeated her favorite curse word just because.

She whimpered as she managed to grab her mobile, which just so happened to be on the bedside table. Which would be fine, normally, except that meant moving her arms, which were in pain, and her back, which made her gasp audibly with its own brand of pain. She hissed another curse word as she texted her uncle to keep the tattoo shop closed, as she was out for the day, since even holding up her mobile made her arm and fingers cry.

She wasn’t surprised to get a call ten minutes later, although she was hoping for thirty if he was busy. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“In bed. With pain. Weeded Miss Smith’s garden,” she breathed.

“That bloody florist. I’m gonna kill ‘im,” he grumbled.

“Don’t,” she begged, “not until I can stand and watch you do it.”

“Funny girl,” her uncle said. “Fine. Got paracetamol, something for the pain?”

“No,” she admitted. “I was a bit sore last night, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. And I don’t want to leave the bed.”

“Wuss,” he said, “are you decent? Can I come up there?”

“Just put the extra sign up, please? Then do whatever you want,” Molly groaned, and hung up.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she heard a heavy foot tread that woke her up. “Oh, thank God,” she moaned, her eyes still closed. “Do you have paracetamol with you?”

“You idiot,” a deep voice grumbled, “I told you to put it by your bedside.”

Molly’s eyes shot open, and her large brown ones stared at small pale ones. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Taking care of you,” he complained. “Isn’t that what friends do?”

“What, oh. Yes,” she said, never thinking to put herself and Miss Smith in the same category. How odd. “Where’s my uncle?”

Sherlock huffed, then flounced onto the chair beside her bed. “He stormed into my shop, told me what happened to you, and shoved this bottle at me.” He popped said bottle open, then handed her the pills with a filled glass of water. “Here.”

“Okay.” She started to sit up, then fell back down with a gasp, tears coming to her eyes. Good Lord, she was truly out of shape!

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, then gently, slowly, cradled her by the shoulders until it was somewhat upright, put the pills in her mouth, and held the cup to her lips. “Swallow,” he said, and she did so gratefully. “Enough?” he asked her.

She pulled her head away from the cup. “Yes,” she said, “thank you.” Just as gently, he laid her back down on the bed, then frowned. “Do you have icy patches or anything similar?” he asked.

“No, I’ve never hurt this badly before,” she groaned. Well, there was Tom, but she wasn’t about to air her dirty laundry to the abrupt florist.

He pursed his lips. “All right,” he said, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he said, “Arms, back, thighs, correct?”

“What?”

Sherlock flapped a negligible hand at her. “Your pain. Arms, back, thighs? And could you be more specific?”

She decided, in her shortened temper, to be a bit of a smart arse, figuring he could handle it, since he did ask for specifics. “The extensor carpi ones, I think, and flexor carpi types, possibly abductor pollicis longus. Latissimus dorsi, thoracolumbar fascia, and, shit, pretty sure the erector spinae are involved. And definitely every damn muscle in my thighs, vastus this and that, adductors and rectus femoris. And they all feel like someone mashed them with a sledgehammer. Happy?” Molly closed her eyes, having to pull up nearly-forgotten names she hadn’t had to use in a long time took a lot out of her.

“Oh. Good,” he said, processing that for a brief moment. “I’ll need to flip you onto your front, then.”

Before she could protest, he pulled down the covers and did just that. “Oof! Ow, bloody hell, Sherlock! What the hell?”

“Massage,” he said, “ever heard of it?”

She’d turn her head to glare at him, but it would hurt. So she glared at the wall. “Yes, but I’m usually ticklish when it comes to massages. So don’t, okay?” she snapped.

She didn’t have to turn to know that he was smirking right then, the bastard. “That’s not the kind of massage I do,” he said, and started working on her left arm first, then her left hand, followed by her right arm, and then right hand. And he wasn’t just using his fingers, he was using elbows and knuckles, digging in and pulling at her muscles. It wasn’t a soothing sort of massage at all, it felt more like muscle pressure and manipulation. When she told him that, he laughed while he did something like stretching her arms out of their sockets. “What did you think massage was?”

Then he worked on her back, starting (to her surprise) at the top, then working his way down. She whimpered when he got to her lower back, so he started working more on the side, but then went back to the area closer to her spine. She groaned, gasped, whimpered, and cried out, but he didn’t stop. Finally, something began to ease, and she sighed.

“That’s enough for now,” he said, “I need to turn you over again.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned.

“Not quite,” he said, and handily flipped her over like she was a pancake. “Top of the thighs, was it?”

She gasped, as it was still a bit painful. “Yes,” she breathed, then groaned as he dug in. She was thankful that she normally slept in her t-shirt and shorts, but had a feeling that even if she were in her underwear, he’d still be attacking the source of her pain with the same uncaring attitude and same intensity of attack. She gasped when he dug at a sensitive spot with his bony elbows, then groaned. “Oh, Sherlock…”

He grunted, then dug his thumbs into her thighs, his fingers almost stapled to her muscles, when her uncle burst in.

“What the hell’re ye doin?” he shouted.

She gasped as she turned to look at him, while Sherlock only looked up, irritated at the interruption. “What do you think I’m doing?” he grunted. “Taking care of your niece, like you said!”

“He’s massaging me, it’s okay!” she shouted when it looked like her uncle was going to murder the idiot on her. Then she glanced down and realized what it looked like. “Oh my God,” she breathed.

“Why do you keep saying that?” Sherlock frowned. “You only say that when there’s sexy things being said. Nobody’s said anything like that.”

“You say sexy things to her?” her Uncle Robbie’s eyes regained their murderous glare.

“No, Uncle, it was someone else,” she sighed. “Sherlock? Could you please get off me for a bit?”

“Fine,” he said, climbing off of her gracefully, then sat beside her on the bed. “But I’m not finished yet.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Robbie Hooper growled.

“Uncle, no!” Molly’s hand shot out. And to her surprise, it didn’t hurt. She turned to Sherlock with a surprised and pleased smile. “My hand! It didn’t hurt!”

“Of course not,” he smiled smugly. “Deep tissue massage would do that.” Then he shot the large bearded man a condescending look. “Taking care of her, as promised.”

“Or the pills,” her uncle muttered, his dark eyes narrowed.

“Hmph,” Sherlock lifted his chin.

Molly wished she could raise a fence between the two, it might make things more pleasant. “Uncle?” she waited until she had his eyes on her. “It’s okay. Sherlock’s massaging helps. We’ll still have lunch at our usual time, but it might take me longer to get down the stairs.”

“Fine, fine,” the large hairy man sighed. “I’ll see you at lunch.” Then he looked at Sherlock. “I got me eyes on ye,” he said, then stomped off.

Molly sighed, then looked at the strange man on her bed. “Sorry about that. He’s a bit protective of me.”

“As are most of the men in this town,” Sherlock noted. “You seem to be related to a good number of them.”

She chuckled, then winced. Yeah, her back still hurt, but it wasn’t as painful as when she first woke up. Guess she’ll need more work and time on it. “Yeah, good reason why I’m still single,” she agreed.

He hummed, then frowned as a thought occurred to him. “Oh. He wasn’t just concerned about you physically. It was also sexually.” He paused. “He thought I’d be sexually inappropriate with you?”

She blinked, then blushed. “Um, yes,” she closed her eyes, then put an arm over her face for good measure. “That’s the summary of why he was so angry.”

“I see,” he said. Then he looked confused. “Why?”

And that, more than anything that happened that morning, mortified her. “Because we’re not related, and you were in my bed, with your hands on my legs, and I’m pretty sure I was making noises--”

“Ohhh,” he said, the whole picture registering. “Well, you did clear it up for him.”

“Yes,” she said, her arm still over her face.

“Molly.”

“Yes.”

“Are you embarrassed right now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because, like you, I saw the situation from someone else’s eyes,” she answered.

“But I’m not embarrassed.”

She pulled her arm down, then looked at him. He looked more confused, and she thought it was the sweetest thing. “It’s okay,” she said. “Could you please continue? With the massage?”

He frowned, and looked hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“Sherlock.” She put her hand on his. God, his hands were big. “Yes. Although I think I need to use the loo first.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Can you sit up?”

She started to push herself up, then gasped. “Oh! Ah. Maybe if I take my time…”

He shook his head. “No. You have to keep moving, or you’ll stiffen up and undo what I’ve done. Here.” He picked her up, making her gasp with both surprise and pain, and deposited her in front of her bathroom. “There you go. I’m not about to help you with your bladder functions, however.”

“Thank you, no!” she squeaked, and slammed the door shut. Her face red, she took a deep breath, then exhaled and forced herself to make the few short steps to the toilet. She whimpered, but she got it done. As she washed her hands, she glanced up to see her pale face, and how affected she still was by pain. She sighed, then opened the door. “All right,” she said, “I want to walk back.”

He nodded, and she hissed as she did so, her back and thighs protesting, but she made it back to her bed. She groaned as soon as she was back on her back, and spread her legs. “Could you please continue?” she asked, more meekly than when he’d started. After all, she didn’t know then what she knows now, which is that Sherlock was fairly effective with his massages.

The tall, curly-haired man returned to his original position and continued his work. She continued to groan, mutter, and then sighed when he stopped. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, then put her hands on her thighs. It didn’t seem to hurt so much, so she raised her knees up and patted down her thighs. “Not bad,” she said, then smiled at him.

He smiled back. “Good,” he said. “then you should be able to go downstairs and make tea.” He jumped neatly off the bed, and grinned when she couldn’t immediately chase after him. “Your back still needs work,” he said, “it took the brunt of it.”

“I know,” she gritted between her teeth, “you bastard.”

“I look exactly like my father,” he retorted, and she made a face. He skipped down the steps, and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Right, then,” she grunted, forcing herself out of bed. After all, she was hungry, and she wasn’t completely in pain, just mostly. Bastard.

The embarrassment wasn’t over by noon, however. “Oh my God,” Robbie Hooper groaned when he returned to his niece’s flat.

The skinny posh was on top of her again, this time on the sofa where he used to kip from time to time. Never gonna do that again, since this time, the posh boy had her on her front and was digging his hands into her back, his long legs wrapped around hers. She groaned as he continued to push into her, and there was a look of grim pleasure on the young man’s face with every noise as he rocked down on her. Sure, he’d hoped that they’d get together, but not like this! And so physically already!

“Ugh,” she turned her head, “is it lunch time already?”

Robbie Hooper nodded, then turned his head away. He is not going to watch his niece get defiled, even if they do call it “massage”. “Yeah, yeah, take your time, I’ll get it ready in the kitchen.”

“He’s still got the wrong idea,” he could hear that deep, carrying voice down the hallway. “I thought you said he understood.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed, and Robbie Hooper made himself as deaf as possible.

The large man busied himself in the kitchen, and prepared himself to be mature about everything. But when he saw his niece limping into the kitchen, using that Sherlock boy as a crutch, his maturity fell away. “’Ere ya go,” he brusquely shoved a plate at each of them. “Made ya sandwiches.”

Molly laughed, and it was the happiest thing he’d heard. Well, it couldn’t be that bad if she sounded like that, right? He looked up, and while her face was still slightly pinched with pain, she looked relieved. “Uncle, for God’s sake, I told you I had back pain as well as on my thighs and arms, right?” He nodded slowly. “And that’s what’s making me limp, silly. Not the massage. In fact, my hands and arms are feeling much better now. I can draw, but I don’t think I’m well enough to be inking someone.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “you need at least two more days of rest and therapy. Next time I’ll teach you how to swing the machete more efficiently so as to reduce the risk of back pain and carpal tunnel.” He noted, then dismissed, the other man’s raised bushy eyebrow.

“Thanks,” she sighed, and yawned. “Hope it’s one of your bracing teas, Uncle, I think I’ll need it.”

“Yeah, it is,” he said, pouring her a cup. “Cream and sugar?”

“Just sugar, please,” she said. From the sound of it, she nearly threw out her back. Good Lord.

“And you?” he asked Sherlock.

“Cream and sugar,” he said, then added belatedly, “please.”

Robbie grinned, and served him just so. He made his own cup with three cubes, just because. They had their lunch in relative silence, broken only by the sounds of chewing and swallowing.


	9. Chapter 9

“What on earth did you to your young lady?” Mrs. Hudson demanded when Sherlock was closing up for the day. Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes at the smaller, older woman, but she was having none of it. “I mean it,” she went on, her hands fluttering about so that she looked like a purple butterfly. An _Apatura iris_ , perhaps? “Mr. Hooper across the street’s been telling me the strangest things--”

“Oh God,” he groaned, “have none of you in this miniscule village ever heard of a massage? A _proper_ therapeutic sports massage?” His landlady looked blankly at him, and he sighed loudly, as if to give the flowers in the hothouse the benefit of his gusty sigh. “I don’t know what goes on in your narrow minds, but I was trying to aid Miss Hooper in relieving her of the pain so that she wouldn’t be as chemically dependent as most of the western world seems to be on pain relievers!” He shot Mrs. Hudson a look. “And please don’t pretend your ‘soothers’ are any more legal than paracetamol, that won’t fly here.” He huffed, then bent down to inspect the flowers that hadn’t moved since he opened shop that morning. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Mrs. Hudson said mildly, leaving for a soothing cup of tea (and perhaps a little something more).

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he said in the same absent tone, still looking at the flowers, then picking up a diffuser bottle. “Good day.”

Sherlock’s lecture, however, inspired Mrs. Hudson to bring over her half-eaten box of chocolates and some freshly-baked scones to Molly’s home. While Molly Hooper may have the best cup of tea, never let it be said that Mrs. Hudson’s scones didn’t have their proper place.

“How are you, dear?” the elder woman asked, letting herself in when Molly yelled that the door was open.

The petite girl had forced herself to sit up on the sofa, still clad in the same t-shirt and sleep shorts she’d had on since last night. Molly’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Much better than this morning, thanks,” she said. “Oh, those scones smell divine!”

Mrs. Hudson beamed, then set it out. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.

Molly smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.”

Oh, that dear girl, the elder woman thought as she made herself at home in Molly’s kitchen. It looked like a right mess, so she tidied things up as she went along, and when she came out with a tea tray, she saw Molly reading a slim book. “What’s that?” she asked.

Molly held it up, then winced. “Sorry, it’s ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’. I thought Sherlock’s knowledge of comedies was spotty, but then again, I’d never heard of this one! And we’re not really going in any sort of order, so some of the stuff that sounds derivative here, well, there are echoes of it in his other plays, I guess.”

“You’re going over Shakespeare with Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson poured Molly’s cup, then added a spoonful of sugar.

The long-haired brunette nodded. “And Miss Smith. It’s actually Miss Smith who got him started, she and I were teasing him about being like the Wall in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and it went downhill from there.” Then she sighed. “I can’t believe I’m reading Shakespeare outside of A Levels, you know? We’re even reading studies on these things, erm, commentaries. Sherlock found them, and they’re so helpful!”

Mrs. Hudson smiles, “So, how is Sherlock liking them?”

Molly snorted, then winced. Apparently, even that small motion affected her back. “Well, he tore into ‘The Merchant of Venice’ with a metaphorical chainsaw. I understand where he’s coming from, there are lot of problematic things in there that as a twenty-first century person, it would irritate, but I hadn’t thought he’d get as worked up as he did!” She blinked. “Hm, or perhaps he sympathized with someone with a similar name, Shylock?” The two women looked at each other, then shook their heads. “Pfft, you’re right, that was silly. But I’ve come across so many interesting readings and commentaries, I can’t wait to see the plays!”

“Have you ever seen one of Shakespeare’s comedies?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She was fairly sure the tragedies were more well-known and had been turned into movies, even a couple of historical plays here and there, but she can’t remember a comedy off the top of her head. Then again, it’s been such a long time since she’s gone to the cinema for something other than what Sherlock called “romantic drivel”. She may be English, but that doesn’t mean that she was duty-bound to watch any and all of the Bard’s offerings!

Molly’s mouth twitched upward. “A long time ago, I saw ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ in the cinema with Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branaugh. I think we watched some kind of play in secondary, but apparently, it didn’t make as much of an impact as Emma and Kenneth,” she grinned. “Yourself?”

The elder woman stared off to the side thoughtfully, then said, “I believe it was a few years back at some uni theater because Mrs. Turner’s niece was in ‘Macbeth’. That was to do with the trees moving, right?”

The brunette girl blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, a bit,” Molly answered, not really thinking of “Macbeth” as a comedy. “How did you like it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t recognize the niece under all that makeup, she was one of the three witches, and they all looked so similar,” Mrs. Hudson complained. “It was very dark, though, lots of thunder and lightning, and all those people screaming about… I don’t know what the moving trees were about, but those were interesting.”

Well, that would describe a lot of Shakespearean tragedies, except for the moving trees part, Molly thought. “I think once Miss Smith gets better, we should go see a play,” she said aloud. “A reward for slogging through all those old phrases and footnotes and whatnot.” She paused. “What do you think of Miss Smith?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. It was a small town, but even smaller when it came to certain people. “She’s very lively, isn’t she?” she said. “I remember when I was younger, oh, she was beautiful, but a bit frightening, too. Nobody knew where she’d come from, or why a brilliant, gorgeous woman like Genevieve Smith chose to be a headmistress of a primary school. It was like having a celebrity in our own backyard, you see, and a mystery on top of it.” Her smile softened. “All of us girls were in awe of her, tried to copy her style, even, but we all looked every bit the bookish type that she seemed to be above. It was like, oh, having Princess Diana back to being a school miss, but you knew she didn’t belong there.” She leaned forward. “Did you know she disappeared not long after she retired? Granted, she came back, but it was a bit sudden, especially since she retired so young for a headmistress. She was still mentally and physically fit, nobody could make head or tails of it. And when she came back,” she frowned, “about five years ago, well, she was definitely in her retirement years. A lot of us thought she’d returned to the life she’d left while being a headmistress, but none of us said so out loud. She had that way about her, you know, people know about her, but were too scared to ask.”

And Molly was too young to know her in her previous role, with only rumors and people like her uncle to spread the legend, such as it was. “That sounds sad,” the younger woman mused.

Mrs. Hudson quirked her lips. “It’s a small town, dear,” she said, “if she were in a place like, oh, Oxford, they’d ignore her soon enough, it’s full of characters and students as it is. But there’s a lot of traffic in a place like Oxford. No, here, they might talk about her, but she’s safe.”

That got Molly’s attention. “Safe?” She couldn’t imagine someone like Miss Smith in a situation like her own. She would’ve thought the woman would’ve breathed fire and set the bastard ablaze, or something similar.

“She’s an old woman now,” Mrs. Hudson stated simply, “and we can only do so much on our own. In a city, Miss Smith would have reputation as well as a nurse, like she does now, but I doubt she’d find someone like Sherlock or yourself to look after her.”

“One would think the more people, the better her odds,” Molly argued for the sake of it.

Mrs. Hudson smiled briefly, seeing the statement for what it was. “You’ve lived in a city, and yet you’re here now.”

The brunette winced. Okay, she had a point. And she was much younger than Miss Smith, certainly. “Point taken,” she said. “Why is it that I can talk to you about things like this, but when it comes to my mum, Uncle Robbie has to get out the fire extinguisher after a brief chat?”

The elderly woman shrugged. “I’m not your mum,” she said. Her eyes took in the younger woman’s exhaustion, however, and her good manners refused to allow her to keep Molly up any longer. “Now, let me take in the tray, and you have yourself a lie-down. I can’t believe that silly boy had you tackling the biggest project all by yourself, he should be ashamed,” she went into the kitchen, continuing to complain about her erstwhile renter, even as she performed the same tidy-up in Molly’s kitchen as she would in Sherlock’s. Well, Molly’s injured, the elder woman told herself as she bustled around, washing up. There’s no excuse for Sherlock.

By the time she came back out, Molly was asleep on the sofa, the thin book fallen to the floor. Mrs. Hudson clucked, then put the book onto the coffee table and pulled a thin sheet over the girl. Just in case, she opened the pill bottle and shook out a couple, then placed them beside the half-full glass of water on the table. Sherlock’s massage may have helped her somewhat, but she was still in quite a bit of pain, and if saving her the trouble of opening a child-proof bottle helped, she would do it.

Mrs. Hudson thought her involvement with Molly Hooper was done when she got home, but not long after she stepped into her kitchen, the phone on the wall rang. “Hello?” she answered.

“Mrs. Hudson, your tenant is a Sherlock Holmes?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.

“Yes, what’s he done now?” the elder woman was slightly concerned. Only slightly concerned, because the mystery caller hadn’t opened with curse words, which usually meant something serious. The only other serious caller was Sherlock’s older brother, and thankfully, this caller wasn’t him.

There was a relieved sigh. “Ah, good. My name is John Watson, I’m Miss Genevieve Smith’s doctor, and I’ve noticed that your tenant is unofficially Miss Smith’s caretaker on the weekends and evenings.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Hudson allowed herself a smile, “he’s such a good boy when he doesn’t think about it.”

“Mm, yeah,” the doctor on the other end diplomatically squashed any other comments that came to mind. “I have a few questions about him.”

“Ah, well, won’t you come over, then?” the landlady smiled brightly, as if Dr. Watson could see her.

“Sorry, what?”

“It’s not a house call, I know, but everyone can do with a cup of tea, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, well, all right,” the doctor agreed after an initial flustering. Perhaps his day was slow like hers. “Perhaps these questions would be better asked face-to-face.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Hudson approved. “I’ll put the kettle on. Goodbye!”

Dr. John Watson blinked, then hung up, bemused. It seemed that his wife was right, people in this town were quite interesting. And he was sure that, once the landlady got involved in the betting pool, things would be more interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

That Friday, Greg Lestrade’s bike was in the shop. Specifically, Robbie Hooper’s shop, or, as it’s more commonly known as, Hooper’s Garage. And that’s how he found out what the fuss was all about.

After Robbie gave a quick rundown, the greying DI gave the big bearded man a look of pure disbelief. “You’re really betting on your niece to snog the most unfriendly man in this town?” he asked when he finally got his wits back.

The bearded giant shrugged. “’E makes her happy, I don’t mind,” he said, “I been waitin’ months already, and I might as well have some fun with it. Besides, it’s nice to know that everyone else, not just me an’ Mrs. Hudson, is hopin’ for their happiness.”

“Or make a little money,” Greg said cynically.

“That, too,” Robbie surprised him with a grin. “After nearly givin’ me a heart attack, tellin’ me she’s visitin’ Miss Smith on her own accord, I figure I’m due some kinda compensation.”

Greg snorted. That’s why he loved this town, he knew everyone and, for the most part, everyone knew him. It just felt odd that nobody before Robbie had bothered to let him know about this new development, was all. “So you just place your bet and money with Dr. Watson, and wait for it to happen? And how will anyone know?”

Robbie Hooper gave him a look. “Yer kiddin’, right? Even if half the town isn’t lookin’ after them now, just one look at Molly’s face and ye’d know.”

Well, Molly Hooper, like her uncle, did have a rather expressive face. Unlike her uncle, however, she couldn’t hide it behind a ton of hair. At least, not that Greg was aware of. “And how did Dr. Watson get this thing started, anyways? I thought they hardly knew each other.”

Then the mechanic sat the copper down and explained the whole backstory, what he pieced together from Mrs. Hudson and the doctor himself. And when he finished, Greg’s smile was as wide as Robbie’s. “Oh my God, this is mad. Genius, but mad. Sherlock’s gonna kill us when he finds out.”

“Ah, but he ain’t,” Robbie nodded wisely as he grabbed his tools. “Y’see, that’s probably why nobody let you in earlier. Probably thought ye’d blab to the boy rather than try and place yer own bet. But I can see you want your boy to be happy, like I want my girl to be happy. And that’s why I told ye.” He shared a proud, yet shyly parental look with the other man, and they both cleared their throats after an undefined amount of moments.

“That reminds me, I was going to ask about Molly,” Greg said, more heartily than the sentence warranted. “I heard she’d done a number on her back, what with helping Sherlock pull weeds or summat in Miss Smith’s garden? Is she all right now? Because her shop’s still closed.”

Robbie nodded again as he started taking apart the apparatus holding the front wheel. “She claims Sherlock’s massagin’ her every day’s what’s gotten her better, but I’m thinkin’ it’s more the rest and paracetamol,” he grumbled. Greg thought it was cute that both Hoopers were stubborn in their own ways, and he could almost swear the mechanic blushed when he said the word “massagin’ ”. Almost, because, as previously noted, that amazing amount of facial hair covered most of it up. “Dr. Watson checked in on her yesterday, said she was all right to do basic chores and whatnot, but if she were to be in a sitting or standing position too long, she’d strain her back again. And since her job’s sitting for hours on end, well, that didn’t make her happy at all. But he told Sherlock to pull weeds himself if he was such a lazy sod, and that gave her a good laugh.” He smiled at the memory. “Right, I gotta get the replacement wheel from the next town over, you all right until Sunday?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, well, I live just down the street, it’s no problem.” He waved at the mechanic, who nodded back.

Once he was outside the shop, the DI pulled out his mobile and called John Watson. “You’re holding out on me, John,” he said, walking down the sidewalk wildly decorated with chalk and acrylic paint.

“Hello, Greg,” the doctor answered pleasantly. “Lucky for you, I’m between patients.”

“You mean it’s slow and everyone’s blessedly healthy,” Greg retorted. “Why did I have to wait to hear from Robbie Hooper a week after the pool started?”

“Uh, sorry about that?”

“Weak, John, very weak,” Greg smirked. “And you know I wouldn’t give it up to Sherlock, so don’t go using that excuse.”

“Fine,” John sighed. “So, what’s your bet?”

Greg paused. “What’ll get me in?” he asked.

John cleared his throat, as if someone might be around to listen. Perhaps there was, on his side, but not on Greg’s. “Okay, well, there’s no set rate. Twenty quid seems to be the average, although the kids usually put in a fiver.”

“Kids?” Greg squawked, ignoring the pinched-looking bank teller walking her dog. “How the hell did they find out before me?”

“Greg,” John said in a condescending tone, “kids are the first to find out these things. God help us when little Bea starts talking, because she will swear up a storm like her daddy.”

Greg snorted. “Or she’ll learn to roll her eyes and say, ‘John’ like her mum,” he said.

“Yikes.” Greg could almost see him shudder through the phone. “So, should I expect a twenty from you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg said, “and put me down for three months and a week.” Then something else occurred to him. “Hey, what’s the longest anyone’s got on?”

“Two and a half years,” John answered. “And they said they were being romantic.”

“Uh, okay,” Greg said, nonplussed. “What was the shortest?”

“Two weeks,” John said, “then again, they thought Sherlock and Molly were already shagging.”

“What, really?” Greg laughed. “Wow. So, what’s it like, being a bookie on top of being a doctor?”

“I dunno,” John answered honestly, “first time I’ve been on this end of a betting pool. I can’t wait for it to happen, though, whenever it happens.”

“Same here,” Greg grinned. “Take care of yourself, John. And say hi to the wife and kid for me.”

“Will do,” and Greg heard a page come in for his friend. “Well, I’ve actually got work to do. See you later.”

“See you,” Greg replied, and hung up. He smiled when he saw a male tourist with a bulky backpack running out of a shop, swiftly pursued by the shop owner. This might be a small town, but it was never boring. Then he ran after them both, hollering, for form’s sake, “Stop! Police!”


	11. Chapter 11

Sunday rolled around, which was the first time since the previous Sunday that Molly had been to Miss Smith’s home. That wasn’t true of Sherlock, but then again, he hadn’t touched The Monster since Molly did. Molly giggled as Sherlock gave her a speculative look before starting the car. “What is it?” she asked.

“I promise not to make you pull or chop at weeds today,” he said. “Even though the area you worked on effectively withered and died. Do you think if you handled, not pulled, just simply, er, touch plants, they would also wither? Just as an experiment, of course.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m some kind of weed killer?” Molly raised an eyebrow.

“What I’m suggesting is more samples of the efficacy of your work,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow right back. “One can’t have a proven theory consisting of just one successful result.”

The small brunette shook her head. “I told you I kill plants,” she said, “there’s a reason why I don’t touch any of your regular stock.”

“You make it sound like a superpower,” the tall brunette wrinkled his nose. “No such thing.”

“Says the man with the green thumb,” Molly retorted. “I think that is a superpower, even though others might not think so.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said, seeming indifferent, but the quirk of his lips said otherwise. Then he started the car, and they went zipping along to Miss Smith’s house.

“What did you think of Bertram and Helena?” are the first words that greet Molly and Sherlock once they enter Miss Smith’s bedroom.

“Bertram’s an idiot,” they answer in tandem, then look at each other. “Jinx,” Molly grinned, while Sherlock looked confused. Molly shook her head. “Never mind. But yes, he’s an idiot.”

Miss Smith grinned back. “Yes, he is. Sherlock, stop fidgeting and tell me why you think so.”

“Are you certain this was Shakespeare’s first comedy? Because it reads like a modern play,” he groused as he sat down. “And I noted that this was labeled a ‘problem play’, so we shouldn’t have had to read it.”

The elder woman snorted, then coughed. “But you read it anyway, in order to prove your superiority, and don’t you feel superior now?”

Well, he did until she said that, but he wouldn’t say it aloud. Instead, he continued to grumble as he poured her tea, “Molly, you talk about it, Bertram is too odious a character to be borne with, _he_ ought to be the villain of the play.”

Molly shrugged awkwardly, the movement sent only a little twinge down her back, as opposed to the shrieking pain it would have done earlier in the week, then sat down. “For all of her virtues, Helena didn’t strike me as very bright, either. At first, I thought she was being very shallow, since Bertram’s only good points were his looks and his victories on the battlefield. Everywhere else, with everyone else, he’s pretty much an idiot.” She sighed. “And yet, after she goes through all that trouble to fulfill his ridiculous demands, what does she get? Someone who isn’t worthy of her, which is obvious to everyone, which finally includes Bertram himself. But in winning him back, she becomes as ruthless in love as he is on the battlefield, and in that respect, they almost deserve each other.” She frowned at the cup of tea Sherlock handed her. “I didn’t like seeing myself in her.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock frowned back at her. “You’re nothing like her.”

Molly sighed, still looking down at her cup. “I’ve done silly, stupid things, those things you do for love, so men would love me back. All I got, however, was a half-hearted Bertram, or worse.” Her lips compressed into something small, something painful, as her brown eyes stared at her hands. “I suppose I wasn’t very bright in that way, either.”

She started when a hand covered hers in a firm grip. Molly looked up to see Miss Smith, staring at her with determination and ferocity, but in the most oddly comforting manner. “But you left them behind,” the former headmistress said, “they’re all behind you now, and you know now they were idiots. And you know that you will never settle for a Bertram again, ever.” The old woman squeezed her hand tightly, then let go, leaning back onto the bed again. “We all do silly things for love, dear. The trick is to realize what you’re doing and stop it, especially if you’re doing it for a Bertram.” Then she smiled wanly. “Have you ever pretended you were dead to get someone’s attention?”

Molly shook her head. “Have you?”

Miss Smith’s smile turned sardonic. “If we were playing a certain drinking game, I would drink,” she said. “And not just once.”

The petite brunette stared at her. “Who are you?” she breathed.

The elderly woman looked downright friendly, which was very, very unsettling, as opposed to her earlier fierce expression. “Oh, darling, if I told you--”

“You’d be her playmate for life,” Sherlock finished, which made Miss Smith snort and Molly shocked. “Admit it, Miss Smith, you adore Molly Hooper.”

“Of course I do,” the elderly woman sniffed, “like Helena, she has much to be admired. And like Helena, everyone with any sense admires her.” Then she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Do you not admire her?”

“What?” Sherlock startled at that. “Would you compare me to Bertram if I didn’t?”

“Considering the fact that you have yet to find any romantic interest in either male or female, probably not,” Miss Smith conceded.

“She is intriguing, as are you, but in an entirely different way,” he said, then frowned. “Why are you intriguing?” he asked Molly.

“I don’t see how I can be,” Molly frowned back, “I’m nothing like Miss Smith. Well, aside from being female, that is.”

“That’s not it,” Sherlock continued to frown. “Perhaps because you have shown an unexpected side to yourself. I would not have thought you would need to resort to desperate measures to attain your choice of mate. You seem far too practical for that.”

“I’m practical now, but I wasn’t then. You haven’t seen me in love, Sherlock,” Molly blushed, embarrassed for her past, silly self. “I’m terrible when I’m in love. Aren’t you?”

He frowned deeper. “I don’t believe I have been, no.”

Molly’s eyebrows shot up. “Never? Surely you must have--”

“No,” he cut her off, “at most, an admiration for one’s intelligence, but if you were quantifying it with the usual symptoms and awkward heuristics most people associate with ‘being in love’, then, no. I haven’t.”

“Perhaps you’re bright in that area, then,” Molly sighed with envy.

But the elderly woman on the bed had sharper eyes, and a keen heart. “No, he’s not,” Miss Smith said fondly. “But he’s getting there.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, but the old woman merely sipped her tea. “Would you say you were bright in that area, then?” he asked her.

“Mm, many would say so,” she murmured. “But I don’t have a lover now, do I?”

His pale eyes flickered over her face and body. “But you did. You loved each other very much.” In a much softer voice, he asked, “When did she die?”

Miss Smith smiled at him, frank admiration on her face. “Oh darling, if you were older and female, I would have you.” When he grimaced, she laughed, then turned her head to cough. “She died seven years ago. I’m sure you’ve put it together in your bright little head, but yes, she was the reason I retired and left this town. I thought I could carry on where I was after she was gone, but I couldn’t. So I came back.”

“She haunted you there, didn’t she?” Sherlock pressed on.

“Sherlock!” Molly scolded him.

But Miss Smith nodded. “He’s getting brighter,” she told Molly, “it’s all right. I thought it would be everyone’s pity that would drive me mad, but it was her, everywhere, and I missed her so much.” Her pale green eyes filled, and Molly handed her a tissue. “Thank you, dear. You remind me of her. She was very sweet, very caring. But she was stronger of us, at least emotionally, and I thought I would fall apart without her to hold me together.” Then she glared at Sherlock with watery eyes. “Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that.”

Sherlock was affronted. “Why are you telling me that and not Molly?”

“Molly knows better,” the elderly woman lifted her chin.

The curly-haired man huffed. “You know I won’t,” he said. “Ungrateful brat.”

“Pot, kettle,” she smirked.

There was a knock at the door, and Molly wiped her eyes. “I’ll get that,” she said, starting to stand.

“No,” Sherlock sat her back down, “I’ll get it. Your face is all blotchy.” He turned and left, not registering the look of shock on Molly’s face.

“He’s insensitive like Bertram,” Miss Smith noted, “the idiot.”

Molly giggled and grabbed a tissue. When the doctor walked in, she was blowing her nose loudly and Miss Smith was dabbing at her own eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

“What’s going on?” John Watson looked at the red-faced Molly, then the teary-eyed Miss Smith, and the scowling Sherlock. “How are you feeling?” he decided to sit down beside his patient and put his backpack on the bed.

“Over-emotional, carrying on with some weepy women stories,” Sherlock said dismissively.

Molly kicked him in the shin, and he pulled his injured leg up like a stork. “Ow!” he glared at her. “What did you do that for?”

“Best way to get your foot out of your mouth, mate,” John grinned at them, then pulled out his stethoscope. “Deep breaths, now.” He listened as the old woman did so, and then put it away. “Well, you’re doing better, even if your nose is temporarily clogged. Hope I see you laughing again rather than crying next time, but I’m sure you had a good reason for that.” He gave Sherlock a look, who had the nerve to look annoyed, and then smiled pleasantly at the woman on the bed. “So, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“That’s the problem, doctor, I have to do for myself, when I’d rather someone else did it to me,” and she sent a significant look at Molly, who colored up all over again.

“Oh my God,” Molly squeaked, and Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Molly, let’s get you out of here and away from these ridiculous people,” the gangly man said, gathering up the smaller woman and ushering her away as if the doctor and patient both had something worse than pneumonia.

John looked at Miss Smith, then sputtered into a high-pitched giggle. “That’s got to be a record,” he said, “unless you plan on turning Miss Hooper completely red the next time.”

“A challenge, Doctor?” Miss Smith raised an eyebrow. “Accepted.”

John couldn’t help but giggle again. He knew he sounded damned silly, but he couldn’t help it. And he trusted these people, these ridiculous people, like he trusted his wife, and Greg, and, well, people he considered friends. Good Lord, he considered these mad folk friends? Well, Mary must be rubbing off on him. “So, how is our happy couple progressing?” he asked in a more brisk, professional tone, in spite of the content of the question.

The old woman sighed. “Not as quickly as I’d hoped. They’re getting there, and learning more about each other. Nothing I’d tell you, young man,” she tapped him on his impressive nose.

He wrinkled said nose and sat up straighter (and, by sheer coincidence, further from her tapping fingers). “Well, the pot’s up to 2,046 quid,” he said, “and it’s just the first week. Still, we’re getting somewhere with these two, aren’t we?”

She nodded. “Slowly but surely. And if Sherlock’s the awkward little gentleman I think he is, he should be attempting to comfort Molly right about now.”

“I’m almost tempted to sing ‘Kiss the Girl’, but they might kill me,” John grinned.

“We’ll save that for desperate measures,” Miss Smith patted his thicker hand with her thin, spotted one. “Or if someone in town gets drunk and decides to serenade them. Then it’s out of our hands.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s one of your actual plans,” the blonde man groaned.

She smiled impishly, and he could see why the town revered her. She was incredible. “No, but it’s funny, isn’t it?”

“You’re incorrigible, Miss Genevieve Smith,” he shook his head.

“And that’s why you love me,” she said blithely.

“Exactly,” he agreed, pulling out the needle and vial. She groaned, but he merely did his job, and the jab was over and done with, in spite of her grumbling. Once everything was put away or disposed of, he sat back down, practically bouncing on the bed. “So, how long should we give them before I go cockblocking our couple?”

She made a rude noise. “That’s not what I would call it, but fine. Give them a few more minutes. In the meantime, have I ever told you about the time when I spanked a princess?”

John Watson almost fell off the bed. His dark blue eyes widened. “What?” he said, looking as gawpy as any schoolboy Miss Smith had ever lorded over.

The white-haired woman smirked. “Everyone ought to have a little excitement in their lives, John. You should tell your wife to spank you once in a while, it would do the both of you years of good.”

While he might make most women (and a few men) blush with his flirting, John Watson found himself blushing for the first time in a long time. “Miss Smith, my personal life--”

“Could do with a bit less vanilla, especially with a small child that takes up most of your energies these days,” Miss Smith tilted her head, her pale eyes canny as ever. “I bet you’d look good tied up. What’s your wife’s name?”

“Uh, Mary,” he said, then frowned. “Why?”

“I think you should tell Mary, when you find yourselves a sitter, that you want her to tie you up,” she smiled. “You should also have a safeword each, just in case she wants her turn. But you’ll do nicely on the first try.” Her smile deepened. “I know you like it when she’s on top, just consider this another way for her to top you.”

He sprang to his feet. “And on that note, I should probably check on our happy couple,” he said briskly. He thought that as long as he didn’t look her in her evil eyes, she wouldn’t know what he was thinking.

“That won’t work, John Watson, I know exactly what you’re thinking,” she laughed, then coughed. “And I would love a cup of tea before you go, thank you.”

The blonde man groaned. Apparently, the former headmistress’ evil powers hadn’t waned at all. He should probably warn Beverly the next time he comes in to work. But he dutifully poured her a cup of tea, blushing as he did so. He would not think about him and Mary like that, he would _not_ \-- Oh, dammit.

Miss Genevieve Smith smiled her evil smile at him before sipping her tea. “Have a lovely day, Doctor,” she said, her laugh tittering behind him as he made his escape.


	13. Chapter 13

“How do you normally kill off plants if you have a green thumb?” Molly wondered as they walked around Miss Smith’s garden. Now that she isn’t attempting to destroy The Monster, the rest of the area looks rather pleasant. The apples on the Granny Smith tree (Molly couldn’t help but grin at that) were barely visible, but it still looked lovely. So did the rose bushes, and the hollyhocks, carnations, sweet Williams, lavender, foxgloves, primrose bushes, and marigolds.

Sherlock shrugged. “The usual. Chemicals. If I’m allowed to, I burn them. The only plants I compost are those from my shop, because weeds will grow anywhere like the bastards they are if given a small chance.”

“Speaking from experience?” Molly grinned at him.

He wrinkled his nose. “Yes, well, once I discovered that weeds grew elsewhere after composting, I refused to repeat my mistake. My mother was incredulous at first, but after a couple of weeks of the same weeds reoccurring where the compost pile was, she was convinced.”

“And how old were you?”

He gazed at a point above the marigolds. “Five.”

Molly’s smile split her face from ear to ear. “Oh, you must have been a darling to try and convince her at that age that you knew what you were about!”

He made a disgruntled noise. “I vaguely recall her saying something along similar lines.”

“I’m sure,” she nodded, then leaned forward and sniffed at a lavender plant. “It doesn’t have a very strong smell, does it?”

Sherlock smiled briefly. “It does, but only if you crush it. Otherwise, you’d have to have a good-sized acre full of them to really smell them.” He patted the tight blooms absently as he inspected the neighboring lavender stalks. “It’s strange, isn’t it, that something that brings such a soothing scent only does so when it itself is pressed and broken.”

He didn’t see Molly’s stricken face, followed by a shaky exhale. “Yes,” she agreed softly as she forced herself to calm down. “I’ll let the lavender be, then.”

He turned to blink in surprise at her, but any question he might have had at the time was brushed aside when Dr. Watson, no, John, joined them.

“How’s, well, the pain?” the blonde doctor waved at Molly ever so professionally.

Molly’s lips quirked up into a grin. “Much better now, thanks. I only have a very small twinge once in a while.”

Sherlock gave her a look. “Does a small motion like shrugging set you off? I noticed you paused after doing so before you sat down.”

The small brunette sighed. “Sherlock!”

The doctor chuckled. “It’s all right, I think you’ll be okay to work tomorrow. Not a full day, mind, just try it for maybe half a day, and if you start hurting after two customers, you should probably call it a day.”

“Even if I take paracetamol?” Molly asked desperately.

“Especially if you do,” John answered. Then he gave Sherlock an appraising look. “In fact, you should probably give her another massage if she does have to take a short day. Wouldn’t want the muscles stiffening up, right?”

The taller man narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at, doctor?” he asked in a deeper register as he loomed over the shorter man.

John shrugged slightly, not intimidated in the least. “Just trying to make sure Molly here is able to get back to her full-time profession without nearly breaking her back for an unpaid one,” he glanced at the monstrous growth near the apple tree. “Painkillers can only do so much, and I don’t wish her to become addicted to anything strong.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Neither do I.”

“And neither do I,” Molly chimed in, giving them both an exasperated glare. “Thank you, John, but I think I’ll be fine. If it’s anything serious, I’ll call you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sure you will. Like you did the moment you woke up in pain from head to toe.”

“It was only her back, arms, and thighs,” Sherlock corrected him as Molly grimaced, “and I took care of that. She’s all in one piece, doctor.”

“Good, we don’t want our only talented tattoo artist out of commission for long,” John walked over to his bicycle. “My wife’s thinking of getting another tattoo herself.”

“Oh, lovely!” Molly clapped her hands. “I can finally meet her!”

John shot her an amused look. “You make her sound like a mythical creature,” he said.

She blushed, but shot back, “I just want to see the woman brave enough to marry Three Continents Watson, is all.”

The blonde doctor stared at her, then shook his head. “Stupid blabbermouths,” he grumbled, “they really don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Because it’s more like _four_ continents, isn’t it, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock drawled.

Molly was surprised to see the doctor give Sherlock a sharp, considering look, the type of look the florist gave other people. Then John smirked a long, slow smirk at Sherlock, and Molly could almost believe Sherlock’s paranoid ranting about pheromones, because the mildly-dressed doctor was suddenly, inexplicably, pure sex. “Good job for you I’m happily married,” he said, and though the words were familiar, they sounded almost like a threat, and almost like a proposition.

Before either of them could react, the doctor smiled a bright yet bland smile, startling the tattoo artist, and rode off on his bicycle.

Molly looked at her friend with concern. Sherlock hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, since the doctor smiled, and she waved her hand in his face. Well, as close to his face as she could. “Sherlock,” she said, “are you okay? And don’t just say you’re okay, because you haven’t blinked once in four or five minutes, and that’s getting a little frightening.” She frowned. “Did he break you?” She sighed when there was no response. “I can’t believe the nerve of that _bloody_ doctor,” she grumbled as she tried to push Sherlock into movement and failed, “he _broke_ you!” Then she tried to pull his arm, but still, no movement.

She sighed, then plopped herself under the shade of the apple tree. It looked like he was stuck in his head again, and rebooting would probably take a while, so she might as well be comfortable. She looked up at the branches, picking out pictures from and between the apple tree’s limbs, and soon found herself seeing goblins, a fat rabbit, and a row of baby chicks.

“Oh, that must be that idiot doctor,” she looked at a bunch of branches that seemed to suggest a long nose attached to a smirking face. “Jerk.”

She stuck her tongue out at it, and almost choked on her spit when she heard, “Do you often stick your tongue at trees?”

She scrambled to sit up and glare at him properly. “Sherlock! What-?”

“Honestly, Molly, one would think you weren’t taught how to behave properly at all,” he continued blithely, as if he hadn’t been frozen in place by a bit of mere flirting less than ten minutes earlier.

The small brunette pushed herself to her feet. “You haven’t got a leg to stand on, Sherlock Holmes,” she marched up to him, straightening her spine as much as possible to glare at him face to face. Well, more like face to collarbone, but it was close!

“As you can see, I have two legs,” he said smugly, before she kicked lightly at the side of his left knee. When he automatically buckled down, she started running around the porch.

Surprised, Sherlock staggered to regain his balance, then ran after her, yelling as he did so. He was also surprised to discover that, for a shorter person, she was fairly fast, even against his longer legs. He continued to chase her around the sizeable house until he decided to run the other direction and catch her coming rather than going.

“Got you!” he exclaimed when he caught her, his arms firmly wrapped around hers, his knees bent so that she couldn’t knock them out again, his feet planted on the ground.

“Sherlock!” she squealed. She blushed, more embarrassed by the squeal than by getting caught, but she wasn’t without resources. She reached around and started tickling his sides, then frowned when he hadn’t let go yet. She stared up at him, but she noticed he was making a concentrated effort not to even crack a smile. Fine, be that way, she thought, doubling up her efforts to make him laugh and let go. Her pinkies went up to his armpits and started tickling in there.

“AAAAIGH!” he shrieked in a decidedly high pitch, automatically grinning from all the tickling as he twitched away from her. Then he glared, cleared his throat, and crossed his arms decidedly, like a grownup way to protect his armpits, rather than simply covering them like he clearly wanted to. “Why did you tickle me?” he said in a lower voice than normal, obviously trying to sound grownup as well as look it.

Molly rolled her eyes. As if she’d forget that lovely little scream. Pity she couldn’t record it as a ringtone. “How old are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

He pouted, “Thirty-three. You must be approximately the same age, Molly Hooper.”

She narrowed her large eyes. “No, you must be seven years old, because you’re acting like it.”

“So are you!” he said, just barely restraining the urge to stamp his foot.

“I’m not the one who froze in the first place when someone flirted with them!” she shot back, then looked abashed when he looked away. “Sorry.” Then she frowned. “Why did you freeze? Do you do that every time a customer flirts with you?”

He frowned back. “No, I don’t. But he…” He paused, unsure of how to continue.

“He was very effective, wasn’t he?” Molly grinned suddenly. “If I had him looking at me like that, I think I’d blush up a storm. Between John flirting with you and Miss Smith flirting with me, I think we’ve got our hands full.” She made a face. “John _is_ married, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, disgruntled, “but I suspect her to be a troublemaker like her husband, or he’d never get away with such behavior.”

She looked just as mulish. “I think we need to have a visit with Mrs. Watson, don’t you?”

“Molly Hooper, what are your intentions?” he asked as she stormed over to the car.

“The doctor’s wife must be getting bored,” the petite brunette said grimly, “especially stuck at home with a small child, if he’s to be believed.”

“Taking the fight to them?” Sherlock raised a thick eyebrow as he started the car.

She nodded firmly. “Do you know where they live?”

“I will soon,” he said, already typing in the query on his mobile. “Voila,” he smirked.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Molly Hooper declared.

And for some reason, Sherlock Holmes liked the bloodthirsty look on his friend’s face. He liked a lot of her other looks, too, but he decided to deal with those later. First things first, doing their homework at the doctor’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, I guess I need to change the rating. Not by much, but some of the dialogue isn't for children, that's for certain. Whoops!


	14. Chapter 14

In the end, Molly talked herself out of visiting Mrs. Watson, or bringing the fight back to John, since, after all, Sherlock was no blushing maiden with her virtue in need of defending. Sherlock, for his part, was a bit disappointed there’s no fight, but when he realized the cause and effect such a showdown would bring, he’s grateful Molly didn’t do the big blowup, either. After all, it would make it seem like he’s either a) said blushing maiden or b) that Molly has something (i.e. a romantic relationship) to defend and if he was bothered by John’s flirting, he should do it himself. But he’s not really all that bothered, now that his mind has processed it.

“Why not?” Molly asked, curious.

He shook his head. “He didn’t mean it out of malice, and it came from the same place Miss Smith’s flirting does: out of playfulness. If he thought I’d be offended by it, I don’t think he would have done in the first place, even though he looks like he could take a punch if he had to, what with being in the army and all.”

Molly’s head whipped around so that her ponytail hit her face. Once she spit it out, she stared at him. “Army? What’s he doing here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suspect it has something to do with the family we don’t see and, oddly enough, can’t find on a GPS. Good thing you changed your mind on locating Mrs. Watson, by the way, I don’t think we could have found her via smartphone. And notice that the good doctor has never shown us pictures of his wife or child. Now, the wife I understand, especially since he’s been flirting with me. But the child? Most fathers I know are obnoxious about that sort of behavior, especially a new father, which, by the bags under his eyes, he is. But he has never bothered to show off a baby picture once since the times I’ve seen him. So, problem with the child or problem with the family? I suspect it’s the latter, and it’s either him or the wife, or perhaps a combination of both, that has the former Army doctor hiding out in a small town where his home is non-locatable by GPS, not surprising in a town like this, but also not locatable via the net, which is.”

“Strange,” Molly hummed to herself, and Sherlock made a similar noise, but neither pursued their thoughts out loud after that.

In the end, however, it was Mrs. Watson herself who came to Molly the next day. “Molly Hooper?” a female voice called out when Molly was sterilizing her equipment, having just finished with a client ten minutes earlier.

“Yes?” the small brunette turned to see a blonde woman with a baby snug in a baby bjorn on her chest. “Can I help you?”

The blonde woman broke out into a large, worried smile. “Oh, thank goodness! I went into the car shop next door by mistake, and almost wet myself!”

Molly laughed as she rushed over to seat her. “Yes, my uncle does tend to have that effect. Please, have a seat. What kind of tattoo do you want?”

“It’s not that, it’s about my husband,” the blonde woman said, her expression serious. “I’m Mary Watson.”

“Oh!” Molly said. She was glad she was seated, too.

The other woman’s rather mobile face turned apologetic. “I actually went to the flower shop across the street first, except his landlady told me he was on a delivery. So I thought I’d meet with you. I think I’m rather relieved, actually, since, from my husband’s description, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t sound like a very friendly man.”

Molly smiled. “He isn’t. The fact that he puts up with me at all is still a mystery, sometimes.” Then she frowned. “So, um, your husband…?” she trailed off, not sure what exactly Mrs. Watson wanted to say.

“Is an idiot,” the blonde rolled her large blue eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to put up with that, and I’m even sorrier that your friend Sherlock is bearing the brunt of it. But, having met you, I’m glad he’s flirting with Sherlock and not you, or I’d punch him out.”

“Sherlock or your husband?” Molly was confused.

“Oh, my husband, of course,” then Mary shook her head. “Sorry, personal pronouns really are impersonal after a point. Anyways, you seem like a sweet girl, and if my husband tried anything with you, I’d punch him.”

“That’s assuming I wouldn’t beat you to it, no pun intended,” Molly said.

Mary smiled a swift smile. “I think you’d be shocked at first, and he’d take the chance to run for it. And he probably wouldn’t make house calls to Miss Smith if he could help it.”

“Really?” Molly stared at the other woman in disbelief. “What a jerk!”

Mary nodded. “But he’s my jerk,” she smiled fondly. “It’s how I hooked him in the first place.”

The small brunette blinked. “He flirted with the wrong woman who took it the right way,” she said slowly.

The blonde nodded, her smile widening. “He’s a habitual flirt, no doubt about that. I’m guessing your friend’s gorgeous, if you’re this cute.” Molly blushed, but nodded. “Yup. He goes for the gorgeous ones, male or female, especially if he has no chance. I make sure he hasn't a chance.”

“Please tell me you smacked him down after you caught him at it,” Molly begged.

Mary laughed. “I can see why he likes the two of you, but I think I like you better. No, it was a bit of angry sex, and, nine months later, we had our little Bea.”

Molly groaned. “Sherlock is doomed, isn’t he? And little Bea’s probably going to have a little brother or sister in nine months.” 

“Ooh, I do like you,” Mary grinned, making Molly groan again. “I’m sorry, love, but unless Sherlock pulls up his big boy pants and makes it absolutely clear he won’t be trifled with, my husband’s going to keep it up. Already, I’ve had three weeks’ worth of rhapsodies on Sherlock’s long, pale hands, ever-shifting blue-green eyes, high cheekbones, and long, long neck, and I’ve yet to meet the bloody tosser myself!” She pouted after exaggerating a hand at said body parts, and Molly had to laugh. “Anyways, my husband told me about what happened yesterday, and the idiot expected me to laugh along with him, can you believe the nerve? But after three weeks’ worth of hearing about Sherlock bloody Holmes’ beautiful body, I was ready to take John’s bloody head off!”

The brunette had a depressingly accurate picture of what came next, just from a few minutes’ worth of chatting. “And after the angry sex, your mind cleared and you decided to make your apologies rather than wait a century for your husband to do the right thing,” Molly finished up.

“Mm, yeah,” Mary shrugged, then patted her baby girl on the back, who was starting to stir after hearing her mother become agitated. “So, on behalf of my idiot husband, please accept my apologies.”

“It’s actually Sherlock who needs to hear that,” Molly nodded at the flower shop across the street, “but thanks. I’ll try not to kill him next time I see him. Can I tease him mercilessly instead?”

“You have my blessings and encouragement to do so,” Mary said, relieved. Then she, too, looked across the street, and sighed. “I’m not sure if it would be better to offer a piñata or a punching bag for Sherlock Holmes.”

“Neither,” Molly said. “I think he’d just be surprised that you’d bother apologizing in the first place. He’s not exactly a people person.”

The blonde woman sighed again, and dropped her gaze as she stroked her daughter’s back. “So I’d heard. He needs an apology even more so, then.” Then she looked up. “Is he as gorgeous as John makes him out to be, or is he just that deprived of lovely male bodies?”

Molly snorted despite her blush. “He’s two steps left of gorgeous,” she muttered, “but he’s got enough of a brash personality and lethal intelligence to make you think he’s all the way there and past.”

“Lethal intelligence?” Mary raised an eyebrow.

Molly thought about it, then nodded. “Yes. Usually used to offend men and women, old and young alike. But he’s really nice to old ladies, and he hasn’t thrown your husband out a second storey window yet.” She blinked. “Hm.”

“Hm?” Mary prompted her.

“I think he likes your husband, too, although I think he’d really like it if he stopped flirting with him,” Molly said after a few moments.

“Oh, lovely, John will have another friend in town other than Greg,” Mary smiled. “Well, once he stops flirting with him, that is.”

“And yourself?” Molly asked.

“Hm,” Mary said, then patted Molly’s hand. “If you wouldn’t mind being friends with a boring old housewife to a newborn, yes.”

Molly’s mouth twitched upwards into a smile. “You’ve just poured your heart out to a stranger and I haven’t even tattooed you,” she said, “of course I will.” Then she looked at the little girl. “How old is Bea?”

“Just about eight months,” Mary smiled down again, “she’s so well-behaved, unlike her parents.”

Molly snorted. “I think you’ve got more manners than your husband.”

Mary shook her head. “Never mistake manners for goodness,” she said, “I think being friends with someone like Sherlock Holmes would teach you that.”

Molly tilted her head in a nod. “Friends?” she stuck her hand out, feeling awkwardly like it was primary school again.

The blonde woman smiled and grabbed her in a one-armed hug, careful not to crush her baby. Molly was surprised at the other woman’s strength, but relaxed into it. Mary was an awfully good hugger, even if it was one-armed. “Friends,” she said.

They’d had some tea and biscuits, a quiet tea time of further acquaintance, until Bea stirred and Mary ducked into the loo to feed her. Then it was a matter of exchanging numbers and another quick hug before Molly caught sight of Sherlock pulling into his parking space and Mary jumped up to make her apologies to the other party.

She’d completely forgotten about Sherlock’s theories regarding the Watsons until she was just about in bed and ready to text Mary about possibly meeting up later that week. But by then, she felt awkward and embarrassed about bringing it up in the first place, so she decided to put it all aside, texting, questioning, until the next morning, when she promptly forgot all about it.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock Holmes was surprised to see a strange blonde woman with a baby in his shop, but then, it wasn’t as if he’d gone out of his way to meet all the matronly types in town. “Can I help you,” he drawled out in a bored tone.

The blonde woman smiled a quick, uncomfortable smile. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes, is it? I’m Mary Watson, John’s wife.”

“Would you like belladonna or foxglove to poison him?” the tall, pale man asked, and she laughed, which surprised him.

“Neither,” she said, “I want to say sorry for how my husband’s been treating you.”

“You,” he paused, then frowned. “Why?”

“Because he’s too much of a coward and creature of habit to do so himself,” she said. “I love the man, but there are days when I’d like to nut him.”

“As do I,” Sherlock said.

“I’m surprised you haven’t yet,” Mary said, looking up at him in a surprisingly friendly manner. “From what Molly’s told me, you have a habit of tossing tossers out the window and beating off lonely housewives with a stick.”

“She exaggerates greatly,” Sherlock sniffed. “And it’s a riding crop, not a stick.”

That only made Mary laugh harder, which startled the baby. “Sorry, Bea,” she murmured, bouncing around a little so the baby in her bjorn was soothed. “Riding crop? Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said, nettled, although unsure why. “Now that you’ve made your apologies, you can go. Unless you’d like to buy something. Then do so and go.”

“Deduce me.”

He stared at her, his small pale eyes boring into her large blue ones. “Oh, you really don’t want that,” he said. “You’ve been talking to Molly Hooper, have you?” She nodded. “Then you should know better.”

The woman with the infant strapped to her chest nodded. “And please, do the same to my husband. He needs it.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“He needs someone to see him as he really is, and be his friend because and in spite of it,” Mary explained. “I think the two of you will be good for each other.”

“I think the last time I was set on a play date was when I was six,” Sherlock said, “it did not end well.”

Mary nodded. “Deduce me,” she repeated.

“Fine,” he hissed, then narrowed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then rattled off: “You’re an only child, linguist, romantic, shortsighted part-time nurse who bakes your own bread, disillusioned, a cat lover with an appendix scar as well as a secret tattoo, and I’ve been told to stay away from announcing a woman’s political side and body size.” He stepped back. “Unless you think you want to hear that, too.”

Mary, rather than looking shocked or amazed, simply nodded. “You’ve been trained well,” she said, “I think I would’ve punched you if you announced my size. How do you know I have a tattoo, much less a secret one?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t seem surprised that I’d thrown in ‘linguist’,” he said, not answering her question, “which is unusual for a nurse in a small town. Did you meet your husband before or after he’d come back from the Middle East?”

“After,” she blinked. “You are good.”

“And you are brave,” he said, “or more clever than I thought. You’re here because of your child, isn’t it?” She stared at him, her face now a mask. Ah, he’d hit a nerve. “I won’t bother trying to deduce why exactly, or if ‘John and Mary’ are your real names, but I will leave you alone. This is a safe place, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“Greg isn’t the white knight in town, is he?” Mary said after a while.

“Greg knows about you?” his eyebrows went up.

“He knew John before I married him,” she said, “so yes, he knows about us.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes again.

Mary chuckled and shook her head. “Next time you see him, deduce the hell out of him. And maybe you can nut him?” she teased him.

Sherlock pouted. “I do not ‘nut’ people,” he grumbled.

“Of course you do,” the blonde woman smiled, “you use that curly head of yours for more than holding a brilliant mind, I can tell.” Then her grin deepened as he looked a bit thrown by the praise. “Do it before he snogs you, for God’s sake.”

“He’d _snog_ me?” Sherlock looked aghast. “But he’s _married!_ ”

“Fair warning, he’s been singing your physical praises for quite some time,” she said, “he knows enough not to sleep with you, but I think he’d kiss those pouty lips if he could get away with it.” She giggled when the tall man looked even paler. “Sorry, sit down, love, there you go,” she said as soon as Sherlock’s rear end found the stool, “oh dear, you really are a sweetheart, aren’t you?” She patted his head, which would normally irritate him, except he’s a bit removed from himself now. “That’s all right, if he tries to do something like that, feel free to nut him. You have my blessing.”

She gave the tall man (who really was a child in a beautiful man’s body, as she’d guessed) another quick pat on the head, and walked out to her car. It really was a good thing the erstwhile arrogant florist had friends around, but he could do with a bit more, Mary thought as she put Bea into the baby seat, especially with his heart wide open like that. She’d never thought about adopting a grown man before, but having met Sherlock Holmes, she thought she just might, especially if her husband was going to be his friend.

Once she was safely in her own home, however, she called her husband. “Put me down for twenty quid,” she said, “and a week and a half. And for God’s sake, man, keep it in your pants, he’s Molly’s man!” There was some grumbling on his end, but she only rolled her eyes. “I know he’s not, yet, but he will be! And not everyone needs proof that you’ve shagged your way across four continents with all genders, you don’t need to compete with Captain Jack Harkness!” And she hit the end button with as much force as she could, but it still didn’t compare to the satisfying slam of an old-fashioned landline telephone. Pity those were out of the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s deductions of Mary taken from Ariane DeVere’s transcript, which is awesome: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/. God bless her, she’s an awesome resource & a lovely person with a hardworking team!


	16. Chapter 16

The surprise visit by Mary Watson was just the beginning of an odd week for Molly Hooper. Well, as odd as a week spent with Sherlock, who proceeded to experiment with what he termed her “effects on plants”. Every other night, after they visited Miss Smith, he’d have her touch plants at varying stages of freshness and with and without gloves. He reported to her that the very next morning, each of the plant she’d touched, no matter how she touched them, how fresh they were, or how hardy they were supposed to be, were dead.

“I told you,” Molly had rolled her eyes.

“Yes, but evidence is better than hearsay,” he’d responded.

Her mouth had quirked up. “And now you have proof for why I shouldn’t touch anything in your shop. I know my weaknesses, Sherlock, and living plants are one of them.” Then she’d brightened up. “Hey, can I sketch them since you’re done with them?”

He’d sighed, but retrieved them from the bin. And she spent her time between clients peaceably sketching dead flowers, succulents, and shrubbery. That had inspired a couple of people to actually have a dead plant tattooed on them, in memory of someone they lost, which she thought was sweet.

“I don’t understand how you can make an excellent cup of tea, but manage to kill the hardiest cactus?” Sherlock frowned as he drank said cup of tea Thursday night at the greenhouse for another experiment.

“Same way you can grow the most delicate flower but make an old man cry, I suppose,” Molly shrugged.

“Not the same,” Sherlock argued, “the man was cheating on his wife, and wished to gloss over his infidelity by offering a weak token. Bertram would have liked him.”

Molly made a face. Apparently, Bertram had become the bar by which every louse that walked into Sherlock’s shop was set. And Molly was surprised by that, although she knew she shouldn’t be. God knew she had had her share of Bertrams through the years. “A pity his wife wasn’t there to see it, then,” she smirked.

He smirked back at her. “You’d rather have the honors yourself, Molly Hooper?”

Molly gave him a look. “Don’t pretend you secretly are an old-fashioned knight, Sherlock Holmes. Underneath all that prickly armor, you are soft and gushy.”

“You have a disturbingly accurate physical read on what medieval knights were like, but that has nothing to do with emotional aspects relating to myself,” Sherlock drew himself up, not unlike a cat.

She grinned. “Don’t pretend to be a robot, Sherlock, because you’re not. You’re not very nice sometimes, but I remember you covered for me and Miss Smith crying the other day by being a complete prat.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she went on, “And don’t deny it. Thank you.”

He turned away and frowned. “I don’t see how that required thanking.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Molly smiled. 

Then she got up and stretched. “Oh, that feels good,” she groaned. “Come on, Sherlock, stretch with me so I don’t feel silly by myself.”

“You already do,” he snarked, but got up and joined her.

The smaller brunette grinned. “How on earth do your shirts not fall off?” she asked as they touched their toes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said as they stretched their hands above their heads, “maybe that’s your superpower. Your tight shirts not popping open. It’s a credit to the buttons.”

He frowned, then looked down at his chest. “Only when I’m stretching,” he said.

Molly snorted, and bent down to touch her toes again. “No, all the time. Or maybe it’s the material that’s secretly stretchy even though it looks tight.”

“They’re comfortable,” he said, also touching his toes. “Not tight.”

“Hm,” she said, as they continued to alternately touch their toes and stretch to the ceiling nine more times.

Then she cleared her throat. “Side to side,” Molly said, “let’s see how your shirt survives this one.”

He narrowed his eyes, but mirrored her in resting his left hand on his left side, his right arm stretched over his head. And when he switched with the left hand over his head and his right hand resting on his right thigh, he smirked. His shirt stayed securely buttoned, no matter what she said. And it stayed that way for nine more repetitions per each side. He raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” she said, “how about this?” And she planted her feet on the ground, but twisted her upper body to the right, then to the left. “Try that five times and see if something doesn’t go flying.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but obligingly twisted to the left and right side five times. No flying buttons were seen.

She made a face. “All right,” she said, and walked over. “Can I test it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Experiment away.”

She stared at the cloth in front of her, then ran her hand down the front. Seemed normal to her. Then she tugged at the area around the button closest to her on the buttoned placket. It was surprisingly sturdy, in spite of how strained the area appeared. She frowned, then pinched the front of the shirt. She knew he liked to be well-dressed, but this didn’t feel like something from a high street department store, that’s for certain. She narrowed her large eyes. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” he looked fairly amused at the proceedings.

“Bend down at the knees, please,” she asked.

He sighed gustily, but did so. Molly walked around, and good Lord, he was far too tall. She tugged at his shoulders, and he grumbled under his breath, but bent lower. Then she was able to tug at the inside of his shirt collar, and crowed triumphantly. “Ah-ha! You cheater! Dolce and Gabbana!” Then she let go, stunned. “Wait, are all your shirts this costly? How on earth could you afford to wear all those for work?”

Sherlock twisted around and straightened up, towering over her. “Flower sales apparently do very well,” he said drily.

“Shut up,” Molly grumbled, but inside, she panicked. Oh God, she just manhandled a Dolce and Gabbana! The last time she did, it was Tom, and she honestly didn’t know how expensive it was until he hit her when she started to tear it off --

“Molly?” a voice broke into her thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Suddenly, his face was very close. “Sherlock?”

He was frowning intently at her. “You’re looking pale, you should sit down--”

“I’m fine!” she burst out. “I have to go!”

And she raced out of the greenhouse, definitely the opposite of “fine”, and didn’t stop running until she collapsed on the bed. She grabbed her pillow and tucked herself into a ball, forcing herself to breathe as tears threatened to choke her. She was supposed to be okay now! It’s been two years now, and she hasn’t seen or heard from him, so why was she shaking? He was far away, and he couldn’t touch her any more, so why was she suddenly so scared? Damn him!

Then her mobile dinged with a text. She squeaked in surprise, then closed her eyes when she saw who the sender was. Dammit. Of all the people to look weak in front of, it had to be Sherlock Holmes.

“I’m outside your door,” the text read.

Molly made a face. “That’s very creepy, Sherlock,” she texted back.

The next text came back quicker than she expected. “Could you replace the yellow chalk smiley face on the sidewalk with something else? It’s irritating.”

She snorted in spite of herself, then texted, “You do something about it, then.”

“Tomorrow. May I come in, please?”

Molly groaned, went to the loo to wash her face, and walked downstairs, only because he was rather polite. She was surprised to find him wearing a thin dressing gown, a t-shirt, and pajama bottoms like an overgrown child. And, to her further shock, no shoes, only socks on. “Sherlock, get inside,” she dragged him in, flipping on the light switch in the sitting room. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have shoes on?”

“Why should that make a difference?” he asked, confused.

She shook her head. “Never mind. Why are you dressed like,” she flapped a hand at him, “like that?”

“You seemed uncomfortable when you realized I was wearing my shop clothes, so I put on my home clothes,” he said simply.

Her expressive face betrayed her surprise, embarrassment and fear before she could squash it down, never mind that she’d already made a fool of herself earlier. “You, you didn’t have to change,” she said weakly, sitting down on the sofa.

“Yes, I did,” he said, and sat down on the smaller chair. “You were uncomfortable, no, afraid of my clothing, and,” he frowned at himself, “I didn’t wish to see you afraid.”

“I wasn’t,” she started to protest, then sighed. “Yes, I was. I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” he said seriously. “Did this have to do with a Bertram?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for domestic, physical & drug abuse, although I'm sure you've guessed by the context by now. This pair of chapters I wish I had beta'd, but oh well, it was determined to get written!

Molly wasn’t sure how to answer that, or if she should. But he was in her house, and she supposed he would hear about it sooner or later. She was just surprised it took him this long, considering how absurdly curious he usually was about things. Her mouth twitched into a brief, gruesome smile before it straightened out. “His name was Tom. He liked to wear expensive clothes. But I don’t think he would’ve worn it as shop clothes, or even gardening clothes.” She shook her head. “He liked the clothes more than he liked me.” Unconsciously, she tilted her head down to her left, as if to hide that side of her face. “He was well-dressed, but he wore off-the-rack clothing for work. Until once, he…”

“He bought Dolce and Gabbana, and you didn’t recognize it, and you did something to it,” Sherlock finished. “And then he hit you, didn’t he?” She was silent, but her expression said everything her mouth didn’t. “And it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. But it would be the last.”

Molly’s lips had pressed so tightly together, she could barely feel them for the pain. She wouldn’t cry, not in front of Sherlock Holmes. Her fists curled tighter, the edges of her fingernails biting into the palms of her hands, until the physical pain successfully overrode the emotional pain, if only a little.

“He was worse than Bertram,” Sherlock said, interrupting her pain management, “he was strychnine and cyanide and ethanol alcohol dressed in a flesh machine.”

She started to laugh, but that only made her cry, which was infinitely worse. She turned her head, as if that would hide the tears, then rubbed at them with the back of her hand. “Yes, that’s it, exactly,” she agreed when she could talk, although her throat was still thick with tears.

“That’s not your weakness, Molly Hooper, it’s his,” Sherlock said. “Weakness is not being able to appreciate and cherish the precious gift of relationship with a skilled, brilliant partner. Weakness is rather being afraid of and tearing down such a relationship, because it’s not understood. Weakness is anger where there should be sympathy, jealousy where there should be understanding, fear where there should be love.”

Still not looking at him, Molly choked out, “But what would you know of weakness?”

There is a long pause, until Sherlock broke it. In a quiet voice, he said, “Weakness is not being able to stop giving in to your addiction, no matter how much you know it will hurt yourself and those around you. Weakness is thinking that you can outwit the drug, when the drug is the very thing telling you that. Weakness is draining your family, your pocketbook, your sanity, your body, to dull the pain, to dull everything. Weakness is a needle with your name on it, one more high-tar cigarette that will end your life earlier than it should, one strong pill too many in a legal bottle.” He sighed. “I know about weakness all too well, Molly Hooper, and about living with it. But unlike Tom, I’m not selfish and cruel enough to inflict it on anyone else any more. On my weak days, I would go into Miss Smith’s garden and try to attack what you’ve termed The Monster, but I’m afraid I made that grow worse in my effort to be better.” He was slightly relieved when a corner of her mouth quirked up, but only slightly. “And you are stronger than Helena. You left him rather allow him to break you, and you are here now.”

“But he did break me,” she said, just as softly. “And I ran like a coward, not a heroine.”

“You healed,” Sherlock retorted, “and you didn’t stay to be broken further. There are people who would’ve stayed because they had children with such a man, or because they were mentally and emotionally broken or chemically dependent. And most of those I knew who did, I saw as corpses later, or heard as conveniently ‘out of town’, only to be filed at the morgue as an unsolved murder. The small handful I knew who left alive and stayed that way had help from family and friends outside that toxic relationship, and, as far as I know, haven’t gone back. They are the strong ones.

“You, Molly Hooper, are one of the strong ones, not the weak.”

They stared at each other for a while. After the initial shock of everyone laying down their cards, Molly felt, well, a bit uncomfortable. “Tea?” she asked.

He looked startled. “Um, yes,” he said, after a beat.

She briskly got up and went to the kitchen. Yes, it was her running away again, she admitted to herself, but that was one conversation she never expected to have, least of all with Sherlock Holmes. The water boiled more quickly than she wished, but she filled the teapot with a sigh, loaded up the tea tray, and returned to the sitting room.

Where she found her tall guest folded up into the chair like a child, his knees pulled up to his chin, staring at nothing, his fingertips touched together in something like a prayer, even though she knew he was the last type of person to pray. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?” he blinked, like he’d come back from someplace faraway or got a bit lost in his head. Either would be a likely explanation. Another blink, and he was very, very present. “Two sugars with cream, please.”

She smiled briefly, and poured the tea, preparing it just as asked. Then she poured herself a cup, and they sat there for a few moments, blessedly silent. “It was my uncle,” she said when she finished her tea.

“What?” Sherlock said, honestly startled.

“You probably knew that, but it was my Uncle Robbie who said we should move back home once I healed up,” Molly said. “He went round the town, showing that bastard’s photo to everyone, telling them that if they saw him, they were free to beat him up or turn him over to Greg, who’d cheerfully dispense some homegrown justice.” She smiled a little at the memory. “God, I was so embarrassed, but also proud of my uncle.”

“So that was what the racket was all about,” Sherlock said. “Nobody bothered to explain, it just seemed your uncle was determined to make nuisance of himself while setting up shop.”

She giggled, and it was less watery than she expected. “That, too, actually,” she said.

“I am surprised he never got around to showing me a picture of Bertram, Tom,” he amended quickly, “even after he started utilizing my business to woo his lady love.”

Molly smiled again, in spite of herself. “Does he call her that, or do you? ‘Lady love’, I mean.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “He said everything but. Do you know how utterly besotted he gets about Annabella Stacks? I’m surprised he hasn’t started serenading her yet.”

“Never, ever let him sing,” the long-haired brunette warned him. “If you think he’s bad metaphorically singing her praises, it’s worse when he tries to literally do so. Feel free to put in earplugs, they’re good for your mental health.”

“Warning accepted,” Sherlock said, “again, I ask, why didn’t I get a picture of said ex?”

Molly shrugged. “Maybe he forgot. Or he probably figured you’d deduce him like everyone else and throw him out on his ear, which is no less than what he deserves. But I wouldn’t have to be pulled into it.”

The curly-haired man sighed loudly. “As I’ve said before, I’m not a mind reader, I can’t automatically tell who shagged whom.” Molly gave him a long look, and he smirked. “Okay, I’m fairly good at that without reading minds, but still, I can be discreet.” The look she gave him was of disbelief. “Shut up,” he huffed, and pulled his knees up to his chin, looking like a sulky boy as he glowered over his bony knees.

She beamed at him. “Thank you for cheering me up,” she said.

He was still glowering. “You can return the favor and show me a picture of the bastard so I can annoy him before throwing him into a conveniently placed wall.”

Molly blinked, then grinned. “I haven’t got any pictures of him. Sorry,” she said when he seemed to hunch down impossibly further behind his knees, “part of the healing process and all. But I think Uncle Robbie might still have one, if it’s the one he’d been showing around and everything. I could give you a quick description.”

“That’ll do for now,” he muttered.

She sighed, then looked at a point about six inches and half away from his face. “He’s a bit taller than you,” she said after a few moments, “skinnier, too, so he looks even taller. Long, rectangular face. Big, dark blue eyes. Dark brown, curly hair. Has a dimple in his chin,” she pointed at her own without thinking. “Comes from a well-to-do family, but very driven on his own and hardworking barrister. He’s three years younger than me, and the bastard knew that I’d be flattered by our age difference.”

“Why?” Sherlock frowned.

She shrugged, but blushed. “Because, mistaken that it is, it’s usually flattering for either gender if someone younger falls for someone older. Like the older person is still attractive enough, or wealthy or something enough, to attract a younger person.”

Sherlock frowned harder. “While I have seen that played out in the scenario of wealthy persons decades older than their lovers, you said there was a mere three years between the two of you. Was the primary draw because he was more financially stable than yourself, rather than the age difference?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Yes, all right, there’s that. And he was bloody handsome. I’m as shallow as the next person, and it was flattering that a handsome, well-to-do barrister was sniffing around, all right?” She looked away again. “I should’ve known he’d be the worst of the lot. At least with the other Bertrams I had, they were easily dealt with. But Tom had connections, a lot of people who were on his side rather than mine, and nobody would put the word of a little ol’ female tattoo artist over that of a big bad male barrister.”

The last words were said in a tone as strong and bitter as a cup of black coffee, and Sherlock pursed his lips. “Let me guess, he accused you of all sorts of things, and yet continued to harass you at work, home, among friends?”

She nodded, then looked up at him suspiciously. “How did you know?”

Sherlock never thought he would get that look from Molly Hooper. He thought it was bad enough that he saw her wounded, but her suspicious look, the same look that usually preceeded scorn and disgust, was one that felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. So he put up his own walls of defense and narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t the only woman who has been used and abused by a powerful man,” he said sharply. “You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to be hunted down, because these types of men play to win, and their idea of winning is to see you thoroughly broken, cast out, and humiliated. You happened to deal with a wealthier class of snakes, but there are snakes at the bottom as well as the top, Molly Hooper.”

“I know that,” she retorted, just as sharply, then wilted. “I know,” she said, more softly. Her lips tightened briefly, and her eyes shone with tears again. “It’s just, everything I thought was good about him, that I thought I loved about him, he twisted about and used it against me.” She was silent for a while, and then said, “I really do like it here. I just wish it hadn’t been Tom that was the reason to come back.”

“This is a good town,” Sherlock agreed. “I just wish it wasn’t drug abuse that brought me here.”

Molly huffed a quick laugh. “Is there anyone here who doesn’t have a terrible reason for being here?” she asked.

“I’m sure there are,” he said snootily, “they sound boring. I wouldn’t bother with them.”

“Oi! Those are probably my relatives!” she glared on their behalf.

“So?” he raised an eyebrow.

She punched his arm. “Jerk.”

“If it would make you feel better, we could watch a funny girl movie,” Sherlock suggested after an awkward pause.

She smiled. “Chick flick,” she corrected him, “and no. I think I’d rather watch ‘Kill Bill’.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Part of the healing process?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she grinned and got up to look for it.

He wasn’t surprised that she fell asleep less than five minutes into the movie, so once he was assured of her deep sleep, he piggybacked her upstairs and put her to bed, fully dressed. Then he went downstairs and continued to watch the movie, but he, too, was rather drained by the topic of conversation and fell asleep about twenty-three minutes later on the sofa.


	18. Chapter 18

Robbie Hooper was sitting in his office garage, having a cup of his usual blisteringly strong and hot coffee, when he spit his fifth gulp out. “What the--?” he got to his feet, banging open the garage door. “Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are ye doin’ leavin’ Molly’s house?” he hollered.

“Going home to change for work, obviously!” the lanky florist rolled his eyes as he continued to walk across the street in nothing but stocking feet and sleep clothes. And --was that bed head or sex hair? Oh God, please, just let that be bed head? Robbie Hooper prayed. “Molly needs to sleep in today!”

“What? Why?” the mechanic roared.

Sherlock Holmes paused just a couple of steps from his front door, but his voice carried clearly across, as did his glare. “Let her sleep in, or you shall regret it,” he said, then walked into his home.

The grizzled man was literally taken aback at the scolding, enough that he took a step and a half back. Then a small smile spread across his face. No, that wasn’t the bearing of a man who’d recently shagged. That was the bearing of a guardian, a bleedin’ white knight, his own bearing, as a matter of fact.

So Robbie Hooper walked back inside his garage, bemused. Sure, he was curious as to what the hell went on last night, but he figured his niece deserved her late morning. He sat back down in the office, picked up his rotary phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart. “Annie? This oughta put a smile on even your sister’s face,” he started.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson was all a-flutter when her tousled renter walked in, all his bravado in front of Mr. Hooper dropped in favor of weariness. “Sherlock? What were you doing at Molly’s house last night?”

He yawned. “Apparently, not enough sleeping,” he mumbled, then staggered up the stairs.

“Ohh!” the elder woman clapped her hands and did a little spin. The kettle whistled, and she remembered what she was doing in the kitchen. “Oh, thank goodness, I thought it’d never boil,” she murmured to herself as she made tea.

It seemed like only a couple of minutes later that her renter came bounding down the stairs in his usual tightly-fitted fancy clothes. “Mrs. Hudson! No time for tea!”

She blocked his entry into the flower shop with her body and the tea tray. “There’s always time for tea, Sherlock Holmes,” she said severely, and he ducked his head slightly. “Have a seat.”

He took a seat at the tiny table, and she set the tea tray down. “So, why weren’t you sleeping at Molly Hooper’s place?” she asked as he blew on his tea. “Was it because you were sleeping with her?”

He looked up, shocked. “What?”

She gave him something worse than a leer -- it was a motherly, “we all know what I’m talking about” look. Except he wasn’t quite sure what that was, that was clear to her seconds after she made that face, so she dropped it. “Sherlock? You didn’t sleep with Molly Hooper, did you?”

“Of course not,” he frowned. “After our discussion, that would be a gross act of hypocrisy, if anything.”

Oh. It seemed he’d finally found out exactly why Molly Hooper came back to live in her hometown. “I see,” she said quietly. “Then I should prepare you for the madness you’ve unleashed simply by walking out her door.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

She sighed, then had a sip of fortifying tea herself before she went on. “I mean, you come out of Molly’s home, dressed like you meant to sleep there, with your usual bed head (but people will think it’s sex hair, sorry), and you told off her uncle, while you were at it! What else are people going to think?”

“People are idiots,” he grumbled around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Neither are they mind-readers,” the elder woman patted his free hand. “It’s a good thing you’re up before she is, at least you can explain yourself before they start spreading gossip.” She blushed at his glare. “Well, less-correct gossip.”

“Mm,” he murmured, then finished off his tea and biscuits. “Well, must dash, apparently, I have a reputation to save and I’m already late for work.”

“You make your own work hours,” she said mildly as he rushed past her.

She kept up her mild façade, until the door locked shut. Then she grinned wickedly. “I have to call the doctor!” she crowed, and picked up the phone on the wall.


	19. Chapter 19

True to Mrs. Hudson’s predictions, the flower shop was filled with people eager to get the gossip straight from the horse’s mouth that morning. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to get fed up enough to demand that anyone who wasn’t there to buy something should leave, and if they felt like debasing Miss Hooper’s reputation, he would happily throw them into the nearest wall. That cleared the shop out in a hurry, and he sagged in relief. He knew people were idiots, but sometimes, he underestimated by how much. He closed his eyes, then put his fingers to his mouth in a meditative pose. He needed to process this, and he wasn’t sure how.

“Coulda called me,” a slightly rough voice said, and Sherlock’s pale eyes flew open. The tan DI grinned in the affable way he had, even if it did nothing to soothe the other’s nerves.

“Why would I call you if there were no crime being committed?” the florist rolled his eyes.

The older man shrugged. “Disturbin’ the peace and all that,” he said, nosing around the nosegays. “Hooper hasn’t opened her shop yet. You want I should stand guard in the meantime?”

“I,” Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, and frowned. “That is surprisingly considerate of you, Lestrade.”

The silver-haired DI barked out a laugh. “You are surprised, aren’t you? Sorry I wasn’t here to sort out the insanity here earlier, but it looked like you took care of things just fine.”

“No thanks to you,” Sherlock muttered.

“Ah, you’re a big boy,” Lestrade beamed, and the florist glared. “Don’t worry, I think her uncle got in there not long before I came here, he should be clearing things up in a bit.”

The holler from across the street made his point. “And looks like she got the gist of it. Guess I’ll go over there now. Have a good day, Sherlock.” He flashed the other man another grin, which only seemed to sour the younger man’s face further. Good times.

Greg Lestrade knocked on the tattoo shop door, then loudly announced, “DI Lestrade here, ready to take over guard duty so Mr. Hooper can continue to muscle up my bike!”

“I don’t need a guard,” Molly said when she opened the door. She supposed she was a little relieved that there was no awkward conversation with Sherlock that morning, but it seemed her uncle, and now the local law enforcement, were making up for it. So far, it’s just been an odd morning overall, and apparently, the strong cup of coffee she’s had wasn’t strong enough for the world tilt that was less “telling all to Sherlock Holmes” and more like “apparently everyone in town thinks you slept with Sherlock”. “And thanks for scolding Uncle Robbie, I didn’t think he’d ever leave.”

“You didn’t see or hear the madhouse that Sherlock’s place was, did you?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

“Uh, no?” the little tattoo artist shook her head, her eyebrows climbing up her face.

“Looks like everyone’s behavin’ themselves now, probably just to give themselves time to percolate the gossip a bit,” the DI shrugged.

“Oh, brother,” she groaned. “Sometimes, I forget how silly we can get here.”

Lestrade nodded. “Got a spare stool or something? Or I can just look menacing when it’s really my knees that’s killing me.”

She laughed, then got out a stool. “Hang on, I’ll get you some fruit juice,” she said, about to duck back in. “Annabella’s got Uncle Robbie trying out some homemade this or that.”

“Oh, that recommends it highly,” he chuckled, then waved at Sherlock when the florist glared at him through his picture window across the street. He waved and laughed again when Molly came out with said mystery drink, turned his head to wince, and shook his head. “Your uncle’s dead gone over that wind chime lady, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “He said it’s an acquired taste, but I’m starting to think only those in love with the maker of said drink has acquired it.”

“Oh, that sounds like a challenge,” Lestrade grinned, then took a heartily gulp. And shuddered, a full-body shudder. “Good God, I think I drank something like this for a dare when I was a kid!” She gave him a look. “Okay, maybe when I was a rookie,” he admitted, “you do crazy things for a dare.”

“I think that’s the point,” she said, then brightened. “Hey, maybe we can get people to try Annabella’s juice, and that could be the new thing they talk about!”

He raised an eyebrow. “She’d give away her super-secret juice for a dare?”

“I honestly think she’d like it to be popular,” the long-haired brunette shrugged. “I don’t think this is what she meant, but at least people will try it.”

“Okay, lemme sprint across and see if Miss Stacks is willing,” the DI saluted, and jogged, rather than sprinted, across the street. He disappeared into the artsy little store near the florist’s shop, and came out five minutes later with a jug of said juice and a small fold-up table, escorted by Miss Stacks herself with a tower of plastic cups and a couple of stools. Lestrade dared a couple of kids to come over and try the mystery juice, and they did so, and made faces and laughed.

It wasn’t long before more kids, their parents, and random adults passed the word about the mystery juice dare, and that bit of silliness did indeed become the new thing for the day. Molly, for her part, discreetly moved her shop stool back inside, and had herself a bit of a laugh every so often looking out her window.

Once in a while, however, she caught Sherlock looking through his picture window at her, and, just to be silly, she waved at him. The silly boy would duck out of the way or pretend like he hadn’t been seen, and she laughed. It was only the last time, before she got an actual customer, that he waved back.

Molly thought Friday was a very interesting day, but she honestly didn’t know the half of it.


	20. Chapter 20

Molly didn’t really have a chance to truly hammer things out with Sherlock until he came by to pick her up to visit Miss Smith that night. God, it was going to be an awkward conversation, and she was awkward enough as it was. At least he was dressed in his regular clothes, and not his sleep clothes, although that was a rather adorable look on him. Wait, “adorable”? Bother. Back to awkwardness again. “Um, Sherlock, about last night--”

“Everyone is stupid,” he interrupted, to her relief and irritation. “Be grateful I didn’t actually send anyone through a wall, or we’d be having this conversation at the prison, I mean, Lestrade’s flat.”

“Sherlock,” Molly scolded him, but he smirked anyway. Jerk. Then she sighed and recalled what she wanted to talk about in the first place. “Thank you.”

He frowned and glanced at her. “For what?”

“For taking everyone on, even though you hate that sort of thing more than I do,” she said. “And for listening to me last night and not judging me.”

“Why should I judge you? I would think you’d have more cause to judge me after what I told you.”

She shook her head. “Not really. You had your addiction and I had mine. We both got out of it.”

“Chemical addictions are rarely that easy to break,” he murmured. “One usually substitutes one addiction for another. In my case, high-tar cigarettes. Takes longer to kill me, but at least I can balance that with nicotine patches. And ineffectually dealing with monstrous weeds.”

She giggled. “Poor you and your green thumb,” she said, patting his arm, and he pouted. She settled back in her seat and faced forward like he was. “I shouldn’t talk. I haven’t gone on a regular date since, well, Tom, so I’ve no idea whether or not I still have lousy choices in men. Probably do, but it’s not like I’ll find out anytime soon.”

“Why not?” he asked quietly, his eyes still on the road.

She looked down at her hands, folded nervously in her lap. “If I choose wrong again, I might die,” she said, just as quietly. “I never thought that was a possibility before. But being laid up in hospital, being in so much pain in spite of the meds, and for months on end even before physical therapy… It was only then that I realized how close I was to dying. I’d had abusive boyfriends before, but not to that level. And even then, they had to move me to another hospital because he found me, and was ready to finish the job.”

“Did he try to hurt anyone else in your family or circle of friends?” he asked in an even tone, like one not wanting to startle a wild creature.

She nodded at the courtesy, not bothering to look if he caught the slight motion. “My family’s okay. My dad passed away ten years ago, and Mum moved to Scotland not long afterward to be with her family. I guess it’s a thing in my family, to go back home after something tragic.” She bit her bottom lip and went on, “Tom probably thought I was easy prey because I didn’t have any family nearby, and that my friends were just as artistic and poor as I was. Thankfully, he didn’t know about Uncle Robbie, because he’d always been a bit of a gypsy and I wasn’t even sure he was still alive. My friends, poor and artistic as they were, were also just as slippery, managed to get a hold of my uncle, and probably did what I did, went underground for a bit before surfacing elsewhere.”

“You had some really good friends, then,” he remarked.

“Yeah, I did,” Molly said, and allowed herself to think about them. It had been a while, when she couldn’t think of them without the accompanying guilt for putting them all in danger. But now, she knows how brave they were, and generous, and clever. And she’s not sure how to repay them in this lifetime, but that’s probably why she’ll always have a soft spot for the rough ones coming through her shop, and the artistic ones, because those were the ones who saved her. “I hope life has been good to them like it’s been good to me.”

“I’m sure they are,” Sherlock said, with a certainty that surprised her.

“Oh?”

He nodded, just as firmly, but his eyes were still on the road as they pulled on to the unmarked road that led to Miss Smith’s home. “If they managed to save your life, I’m certain they had the means to save their own.”

“Oh, we’re here,” Molly blurted out when they came to a stop, her relief at an obvious diversion was embarrassing, but she didn’t care. At least they got that talked out and done with before they had to face Miss Smith. And she was also relieved that Sherlock didn’t call her on it, either, only grabbing the crate from between her legs and storming imperiously into the old woman’s house.

“Nope,” is the first thing Miss Smith said when she saw Molly and Sherlock come into her bedroom. “Liars, all of them.”

Molly laughed, thankful the previous conversation’s weightiness didn’t show. “How do you know?” she said as she set the tea tray down on the side table.

“The same way Sherlock does,” Miss Smith answered. “Your face. The body language between the two of you. Definitely no secret or smug smiles, though there is an awkwardness between the two of you. Most likely something embarrassing, but nothing sexual, unfortunately. You certainly don’t have a sex glow about you,” she nodded at Molly, “but we could change that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Molly blushed. “If I weren’t certain about your poor health, I’d say you were faking it to keep Molly coming over,” the florist muttered, “here’s your tea.”

“Ooh, there’s an idea,” the elderly woman winked at Molly, who looked pleadingly at Sherlock, who, in turn, wanted to both shake the old woman and rail at the ridiculousness of humanity in general. “Oh, don’t be like that,” she pouted at Sherlock, who glared back. “The two of you brighten up my night, whether or not you shagged like rabbits.”

“The last rabbit I saw years ago was spayed and glowed in the dark,” Sherlock snorted.

Molly gave him an odd look. “Why was it glowing in the dark?”

“She, not it,” he shrugged. “Some kind of jellyfish-derived chemical, probably borrowed or stolen research from the universities in Hawaii or Turkey,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they stole or borrowed the researchers as well.”

“Of course not,” Miss Smith nodded serenely, although her pale blue eyes were merry. Then she coughed, and had another sip of tea. “What’s the next play on the list?”

“I’m tempted to give up on Shakespeare, since he’s starting to make more sense than our neighbors,” Sherlock grumbled.

Molly smiled. “Bored already?”

He gave her an appraising look. “How do you know?”

She shook her head, her long brown ponytail waving. “Actually, I just guessed,” and he snorted again. “Before we put him away for good, can we do ‘Much Ado About Nothing’? I was talking about it with Mrs. Hudson the other day, and I liked it. I think.”

“There’s a ringing endorsement for you,” Sherlock said, and Molly punched his arm. “Ow,” he deadpanned.

“Shut up,” she said, then bounced eagerly on her chair to look at Miss Smith. “May we?”

“Since this is your first, and I suppose last, pick, of course,” the elderly woman waved a regal hand.

“Yes!” Molly punched the air, which was much better for Sherlock’s arms. “Can we watch the Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branaugh version, while we’re at it?”

“Would you like to ask for the moon, since you’re in the mood?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Not necessary,” Molly smiled, in too much of a good mood to be bothered by his sarcasm. “Unless you’ve got your own preferred version?” she took in the other woman’s interested glance.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said, “I really couldn’t understand how those two Americans could be in the roles of dukes, even if I do like Mr. Washington’s performances elsewhere.”

Molly raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Which version do you prefer, then?”

“Anything performed live in the theatre, where these things usually spawn from,” Miss Smith smiled. “Preferably by a director who knows what they’re doing, but an amazing cast does wonders, as well.” She sighed deeply, then coughed a bit. “Pity there’s not a decent production anywhere nearby.”

“Here,” Molly poured the older woman another cup of tea, “we could look it up, if you want.” 

She grinned when Sherlock was already scanning down the list of plays being performed within the year on his mobile, his scowl getting deeper and deeper. “Ugh, they’re mostly doing dramas,” he muttered, shoving his mobile back into his pocket. “The closest they get to comedy is ‘Twelfth Night’, a different play altogether and in the next town over.”

“That sounds interesting, but another time, perhaps,” the elderly woman on the bed shook her head. Then she looked at them. “Why don’t we have a staged reading, before we see the movie?”

“What’s that?” Molly frowned slightly.

“It’s a form of theater without sets or costumes,” the former headmistress explained. “Basically, you have the actors read from the scripts, they could be either seated or standing in place, or just have minimal stage movement. It’s pretty much what it sounds like: a staged reading without the hustle and bustle and monetary hassle that goes along with a full production.” She paused. “Well, that’s the goal. It used to be the intermediary stage between a table read, or a cold rehearsal, of a new play, to the finished product, sort of a way for the playwright to get feedback to polish up the script and everyone else to tighten things up. Nowadays, it’s another option to put on a play, even an established one, without too much fuss.”

“Hm,” the small brunette hummed to herself. “Who’s going to do it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She said ‘we’ earlier, I assumed she wasn’t speaking French,” he snipped.

“You would be correct in your assumption,” Miss Smith said, just as snippily. “Since there’s no actual full-fledged production, I might as well have a little fun and have the two of you do the whole thing, Molly doing all the female role, and Sherlock doing all the male roles. Keep it simple and fun.”

“Okaaaay,” Molly said slowly, “but aren’t there a ton of male characters? Wouldn’t that be a bit hard on him?”

“Are you saying you think I can’t do it, Molly Hooper?” Sherlock raised an imperious eyebrow.

She looked at him levelly. “I honestly can’t see you playing the part of two idiots gabbing away while the criminals are carrying on in the background.”

“I’ll have you know I can do whatever I set my mind to, even if it’s mindless characters,” he gave her just as level a look.

She shrugged. “Fine, then. Have it your way.”

“I always do,” Sherlock lifted his chin.

Miss Smith looked interestedly at the proceedings. It was going better than she thought. The perfect play, and the perfect Beatrice and Benedick to egg each other on. The other roles would be interesting foils, but she was mainly concerned with how they would interpret the dueling couple. No, wait, she was also curious to see how they’d play out the sweetly naïve and romantic Claudio and Hero, that would be good for some laughs. She beamed, but not for the reasons they probably thought she was.


	21. Chapter 21

Molly was relieved they managed to stave off the awkwardness throughout the visit, although she felt uneasy when it was just her and Sherlock again as they got back in the car without a word. Why was she feeling like this? She frowned. After all, it was just like what Miss Smith said, an embarrassing conversation, but it wasn’t like they’d had sex or anything.

She frowned harder. Perhaps because it was an intimate conversation? Probably. Or perhaps it was an intimate conversation, and a serious one at that, since she didn’t feel like this around Mary, who’d shared intimate details but felt no embarrassment or awkwardness with the woman. She sighed. God, it had been a while since she had friends her age. She never used to feel like this when she was talking with them about things like this. No, wait, she did, but she got over it quickly when they shared their own hearts. But that’s what Sherlock did, so why was she still feeling awkward about the whole thing? It was weird, that’s what it was.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock broke the silence. “Stop it.”

Molly rolled her big brown eyes. “Fine, tell me what I was thinking, then, and I’ll shut up mentally.”

He snorted. “Probably having some ridiculous crisis about what we talked about last night. Some of those details I knew not long after I’d met you, but others, like the name of the man who did that to you, I didn’t. Did you know I was a drug user after you met me?”

She blinked at the switch in topic. “Uh, no. All I knew was that you might have had a bit of trouble back in the city, but that was all. Most people ascribed it to your rudeness.”

He smirked. “I’m sure they did. Not to worry, I was as much of a high-functioning sociopath then as I am now, just sober.”

“Is that what you called yourself?” Molly actually looked at him. He seemed to believe it, the silly boy. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of. And you made that up, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, ruffled that she was neither impressed nor frightened at the appellation. And he was obviously lying.

“If that’s your fancy, made-up way for saying ‘rude’, then yes,” Molly smiled, and he grimaced, which made her laugh. “This is going to sound odd, but you made me forget I wasn’t happy before.”

“What do you mean?” he frowned slightly.

She ducked her head, even though his eyes were on the road. “I mean, I think that’s why last night threw me off. Being friends with you made me happy, and then I got scared, and then we talked, and then,” she waved her hand about, as if to coax the words out, “I’m glad we’re still friends. I haven’t had a friend to talk to like that since, well, since I came back here. I mean, there’s Uncle Robbie, but he knew already. And while I’m related to a good lot of people around here, there’s nobody I’ve felt comfortable enough to talk with like that. So, thank you.”

There was a pause. “You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, as if remembering a phrase in a language he hadn’t spoken in quite some time. “You deserve all the happiness in the world, Molly Hooper.”

The phrasing took her aback. “Really?”

The fact that she actually questioned him seemed to sadden him, which was odd. “Yes, really,” he answered in a seemingly-slightly nettled tone. “Not everyone you fall in love with has to be a psychopath.”

A smile ticked up at the corners of her lips. “Is being friends with a high-functioning sociopath all right, then?” she asked.

“Shut up,” he wrinkled his nose. “And yes.”

She laughed, and glanced up to see that he was smiling a little, too. “Good,” she said firmly. “So, experiment or homework tonight?”

“Homework,” he nodded abruptly enough that some of his curls actually bounced. “I want to get that out of the way before memorizing lines for those ‘tons of male characters’, as you said.”

She giggled. “All right. See you tomorrow?” she asked when they pulled up in front of her home.

“Of course,” he said. “Oh look, there’s your uncle pretending not to be concerned about another visit to the wicked old witch’s house,” he drawled as he pointed out the unmistakable figure of Robbie Hooper blocking Molly’s front door.

She laughed, loud and hard. “Sherlock!” she scolded, hitting his arm.

He smiled, but patted his arm. “Perhaps I should invest in arm padding. You’ve got bony knuckles.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you don’t,” she said. “Good night.” She smiled and got out of the car. “What are you doing out here?” she teased her uncle as Sherlock pulled out to his own parking space. “Thought you were on a date.”

Her sweet bear of an uncle fidgeted. “Was,” he said, “you came home late.”

She checked her watch. Oh. “Sorry about that,” she said, and hugged him.

He hugged her right back, and she smiled. He really was good for hugs. “So, what made you late?” he asked, scowling for effect but not meaning it.

“We’re reading ‘Much Ado about Nothing’ for our last play,” she said, unlocking her door. It was a small town, but she wasn’t about to leave a room full of needles and expensive equipment lying open for anyone to get to. “And guess what?” she asked when she locked the door behind them.

He flipped on the light switch. “What?” he asked gamely.

“I get to be a part of it!” she squealed in excitement. “Well, sort of. Since there’s no local production anywhere nearby, Miss Smith asked me and Sherlock to read the play aloud to her. Me doing the girl stuff and Sherlock the boy stuff.”

“Surprised she didn’t ask for the other way ‘round to be contrary,” he smirked under his thick beard and moustache.

She laughed at the thought. “Oh God. I think she was just being nice to me, I don’t think I could handle doing all those roles. And it would be funny to see Sherlock pretend to act like the idiots he makes fun of.” Even though it was later than she thought, she automatically put the kettle on.

He looked interested. “Record it for me?” he asked, bemused at his niece’s habits.

She blinked, then blushed. “Well, it’s not like we’re really acting it out or anything,” she hedged. “And I’m not sure if Sherlock would be willing…”

“Just askin’,” he patted her on the back. “It’s nice to see you so excited about somethin’ that ain’t skulls and dead flowers.”

“I like kittens, too,” she pouted.

Then he patted her on the head, and she pouted harder. “I know ye do,” he said, “I’ll not stay for tea, but you have a good night.”

“You, too,” she said, and hugged him. He hugged her right back, and she sighed when he left, locking the door behind him.

And then she thought, What would Sherlock feel like if he hugged someone? Contrary to his skinny appearance, she knew by his limb-contorting massages that he was stronger and sturdier than he looked. And then she blushed. Why was she thinking of Sherlock, of all people, hugging anyone?

God, she needed some tea before she cracked open her laptop and got to studying!


	22. Chapter 22

Molly woke up to find her mobile had tons of new texts. Curious, she swiped the screen as she yawned, and then stared at it. They were all ID’d as “Sherlock”. Every. Single. One. Since 11:43 p.m., which was five minutes after she’d set her mobile to silent mode. Her groan turned into another yawn. Yeah, good thing she’d set it to silent, or she’d have stormed across the street to kill him.

She made herself a pot of coffee, because she needed the caffeine to deal with a man who apparently not only didn’t sleep, but didn’t seem to think others did, either, when it came to homework or anything else, really. She supposed the texts were because they had to perform it, so to speak, rather than just read and discuss. Once she got at least half a cup of coffee and a couple of toast slices in her system, she took a look at the texts.

“WHY ARE THEY ALL IDIOTS?”

“WHY DO YOU LIKE _THIS_ PLAY, OF ALL THINGS?”

“All right, the multiple deceptions for the myriad reasons were amusing for a bit, but it got tiresome.”

“Dogberry is very tiresome.”

“So is Don John. Such a one-note villain with such a ridiculous name. He should have been called ‘Giovanni’ if he were actually Italian. Not like Shakespeare was ever accurate with cultures outside his own. Even his own suffered for dramatic license. At least Edmund in ‘King Lear’ had something to recommend him.”

“Perhaps Shakespeare learned his lesson from ‘Much Ado’ for ‘King Lear’ when it came to evil bastards. Pun intended.”

“Speaking of recycling, he apparently liked running the fake dead wife bit so much from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ that he decided to use it for this play.”

“Why do Claudio and Hero even fall in love? Are they actually in love, or are they in love with each other’s social positions?”

“I take that back, this is the sort of ridiculous thing I despise about arranged marriages. One can only hope they are both good-looking enough to be forgiven for their mutual stupidity masquerading as young love.”

“But Claudio’s the bigger idiot.”

“Is it ironic that the theme song is about men being unfaithful, but it turned out that a woman is falsely accused of being so? Or is Shakespeare being a metaphorical bastard about it?”

“At least the writer made up for it somewhat by providing a paltry measure of justice. I still don’t understand why Claudio still got to marry Hero. He should have been married to a corpse if there were real justice.”

“And Hero should’ve gotten married to, I don’t know, somebody not an imbecile. Perhaps Helena from ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’. Neither are lesbians, but it certainly would’ve made for better life partners than who they actually ended up with.”

“Is Don Pedro gay or perpetually thwarted? Because I’m fairly sure Don John is gay.”

“Aside from their sexual preferences, it seems the half-brothers also share a mutual talent for manipulation.”

“It’s a good thing we’re just doing a reading, I would shudder to attempt sneaking around myself, or acting out any number of things requiring me to be in different parts of the stage at the same time.”

“Although I wouldn’t mind dancing.”

“Forget that last text, that’s not pertinent to the play.”

“Mrs. Hudson does not appreciate the process of music composition. It speaks poorly of her taste.”

“She says it speaks poorly of my upbringing that I don’t stop scraping at the violin at 3:30 in the morning. Why do people always bring up the time when they are in a bad mood?”

“And it’s not 3:30, it’s 3:32. She said that was not an improvement.”

“She also said it’s probably a good thing you’re sleeping, or you’d kill me for texting so much at this hour.”

“As I said, why do people keep bringing up the time, when I have a perfectly good mobile to tell me that?”

“Another thing: Why aren’t Benedick and Beatrice already married? They certainly argue like a married couple, and are witty enough to carry on metaphors through an entire conversation. He probably said or did something stupid and left her, didn’t he?”

“But they like each other enough to keep sparring with each other, even when he comes back from a battle. Everyone seems to know they have a history together,”

“The fact that the silly deception to bring Beatrice and Benedick together works only means that there was something to lay a foundation on, even to the point where he vowed to duel his former best friend for his love’s cousin’s honor.”

“Honor and reputation become ridiculous things here. So are love and pride.”

“I’m almost tempted to bring props.”

“Nothing fatal, just a couple of fencing foils.”

“I’m fairly sure I have them somewhere.”

“Found them. You can use the one with the tip broken off. I also have some masks and jackets.”

“Apparently, I’ve grown since uni. You can have my old gear, I’ll just use the other one.”

“I know Benedick and Claudio don’t really duel. But I think it would be funny if Benedick and Beatrice did.”

“Miss Smith probably won’t think so, but then again, she might. One never knows about her sense of humor sometimes.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s humor has apparently evaporated when my fencing practice knocked the vase off the table. I told her it’s a good thing I’m practicing now, or I might accidentally stab you in the liver.”

“She said she’d stab me in the liver if I didn’t go to sleep. I placated her by taking off the fencing gear and putting away the foil. I hope she’s happy now.”

“How can you stand being asleep so long? Don’t these questions bother you, too?”

“Like the idea of love at first sight. Obviously, that was supposed to be the case for Hero and Claudio, even though her father rather liked the idea of the older and more powerful Don Pedro courting his daughter for a while there.”

“And, for a couple supposedly at the center of the story, originally, they don’t say anything of consequence to each other, really, until the disaster of a wedding. When Claudio speaks, it’s to betray and crucify the one he thought had betrayed him. And when Hero speaks, her protests of innocence aren’t believed by the man who was supposed to love her. Clearly, his love was as shallow as hypothesized.”

“Certainly, one can blame the stock villain, but it’s the supposed romantic lead Claudio that does the horrifying deed of publicly shaming his wife and abandoning her.”

“I wouldn’t blame Beatrice for wanting to grab Benedick’s sword to run it through that idiot. I would’ve done it myself.”

“It’s interesting that the commentaries say Claudio and Hero are supposed to represent the typical romantic couple of the times, but it doesn’t really say they are the better couple.”

“They also say they were supposed to be the lead couple initially, and indeed, much of the action revolves around them, but the cleverness of Benedick and Beatrice won out early on. Good on them.”

“Not that Benedick and Beatrice are any less manipulated or stupid, but they do seem to portray a slightly more realistic picture.”

“Very slightly, because, as I’ve said, they probably would’ve been married in real life by then. Or perhaps long-term partners, if one were to transfer them to modern times, to allow them the option of being together without actually marrying.”

“Not that any of this was realistic to begin with. Shakespeare play. With a fake dead wife. And a police officer who mangles the English language so badly I wanted to break my skull on the table more than once.”

“Never mind, Lestrade does that often enough, that’s realistic.”

“And there’s my voice for Dogberry taken care of.”

“Oh, do you do voices? Imitations, I mean? Or acting?”

“I never thought to ask before we were brought into this. You don’t seem like the type, pardon my saying so.”

“I can see you as a capable stage manager, or spotlight operator, or some kind of stage crew. But not actor.”

“Feel free to return with rebuttals, whenever you wake up.”

“Or proof of my conjectures. That will do as well.”

Molly stopped reading, took another gulp of coffee, then re-read the last few texts. Nope, they still said the same thing. She sighed, took another gulp, and read further, thankful again that she had had her sleep rather than be disrupted like poor Mrs. Hudson.


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock, you jerk,” Molly said when she walked into the flower shop for lunch with a large paper bag redolent of grease and carbohydrates.

“Why?” he frowned, pausing in mid-spray of a pot of tulips.

She gave him a level look. “How you manage to stay awake and alert without sleep is amazing. Why you do so in a way that wakes up your landlady multiple times is just plain rude. Apologize.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to _her_ , you ninny!” she said, exasperated. “And for goodness’ sake, let her have her rest at night! She doesn’t share your insomnia!”

The tall florist huffed, then turned and left to see his landlady. Molly shook her head, then opened her paper bag and set up lunch. She’d gone to the pub for fish and chips, but the tea thermos and attendant cups were hers. By the time Sherlock returned, she had the food portioned out, and tea in cups, barely cooling.

“Everything all right?” Molly asked.

He nodded firmly, then shoved a fish stick into his mouth, since he didn’t like that particular pub’s sauce.

“First of, no to the fencing.”

He looked wounded. Well, in his overly dramatic way, which meant he was most likely just 34% wounded. Oh well. “Why not?”

“For one thing, because I’m a novice at it, I’m more likely to do more damage with a broken foil tip. For another, I doubt you’ve washed the jacket or anything, and ew. And third, no, wait, this is separate from my disagreement. Why do you have fencing foils and gear in the first place? You said it was from uni, but I can’t believe you held on to that for all these years without using it.”

His eyes skittered, clearly uncomfortable. “Personal interest.”

“Of course,” she snorted, “but why fencing? There’s all sorts of sports, why that in particular?”

“Not just that in particular, I also took up boxing and martial arts, and kept up swimming when I was in uni,” he said promptly. “I got bored easily.”

“So some things never changed,” she grinned. “You also mentioned you like dancing? What kind of dancing?”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, running his hands down his face, then ruffling his hair to a maddening degree. “You were supposed to forget that, delete that. Not important.”

“Oh no, friends should know the best about each other,” she grinned. “Besides, I’m a terrible dancer. It’s like you and your green thumb, anyone who’s got a skill I don’t, it’s pretty cool.”

He snorted again. “Do you think ballroom dancing is ‘pretty cool’?” he said, waving his fingers with air quotes.

She nodded. “The best I can do is swing my arms and stomp my feet, duck if anyone taller does the same, and if it’s slow, wave a lighter,” she said, “at least at metal concerts, nobody can criticize your dancing skills, or lack thereof.”

He stared at her. “You go to metal concerts?”

She shrugged. “Or whoever’s playing at the pub nowadays. I met one of my ex-boyfriends at a metal concert some years back, my ponytail hit his face,” she laughed. “I got so much inspiration for designs there. And it helps to know what the band’s logos look like for fans wanting tattoos,” she shrugged.

“You really are dedicated to your craft,” he said. “By the soft pop music you play at your shop, one would not expect that.”

“Oh, I like that music well enough,” she agreed, “and it’s much better for me when I ink than if I listened to metal. I found I pressed harder if I had too much adrenaline, which isn’t good for the customer’s comfort, or for the art, for that matter. It also made my apprenticeship a bit difficult, since that’s what my mentor listened to, but he let me wear earplugs.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how most of them can work and listen to metal at the same time, it’s amazing. But I can’t.” Then she tilted her head. “I’m guessing you’re more of a classical music type?”

He nodded. “And familiar with a frightening array of musicals, my parents can’t get enough of those.”

She laughed. “So, Gilbert and Sullivan, Rogers and Hammerstein, all of those guys?”

Sherlock groaned. “And even Elvis Presley. I don’t know why my mother considers his movies musicals, but she does.”

Molly squinted, trying to recall any Elvis movies. Hm. “Your mother may have a point,” she said. “They do follow a similar format, and there’s as much brain power involved in the plots.”

“Then you can go see the next musical with them, not me,” he groused.

“I’m your friend, not your sister,” she shot back, “I didn’t volunteer as tribute.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“ ‘Hunger Games’,” she answered. “Young adult books or watch the movies, or skip all that and Google it.”

He pulled out his mobile, and she smiled briefly, and refilled her tea. “Ah,” he said after scanning the results, “well, I would say it was that dire, but you would probably disagree.”

“Probably,” she nodded.

“Oh well, Mycroft usually volunteers as the tribute, anyways, he’s the oldest,” he went on in the same tone.

She frowned. “You have a brother named Mycroft?”

He gave her a mischievous smile. “Friends should also know the worst about each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “Having an older brother does not mean that.” She paused. “Unless he’s really evil.”

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock said, “he’s just my arch-enemy. And the British government.”

She sputtered, “I-I don’t know if you’re joking, or using hyperbole as usual.”

“I never use hyperbole,” he said, affronted.

“Yes, you do,” she corrected him. “You also use sarcasm, understatement, irony, metaphor and a number of other literary devices like they’d go extinct without your help.”

“She said, using simile,” he intoned like a narrator.

“Shut up,” she glared at him, and shoved a chip in his mouth. “Smart arse.”

“Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass,” Sherlock retorted, his tone and accent slid to a familiar, gravelly voice, which set Molly off into embarrassed laughter, covering her mouth. He actually went through the whole damn monologue by memory, still in Lestrade’s borrowed voice, which was probably a good thing that a certain DI wasn’t anywhere near the premises. “Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!” he finished declaiming, his hand on his chest, looking as sincere and regretful that he wasn’t written as an ass as one could be.

“If Greg were here, I’d let him punch you,” Molly giggled as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

Sherlock lifted his chin. “He should be honored that I was able to imitate his non-London London accent.”

The smaller brunette sighed. “In any case, I don’t think I have a talent for imitation or accents. Or acting, really. You did have some fairly good guesses as to my theater experience. I was a light board operator and occasionally followspot operator. It was fun, but yeah, acting wasn’t what I was into.”

“But you’re doing it now because it’s your favorite play,” Sherlock said.

“Well, one of them,” Molly agreed. “And because Miss Smith asked. So be prepared for some horrible acting.”

“I could help,” he said. “With the acting part.”

She blinked. “Okay. Thanks.” Then she gave him a wry look. “Why do you think Don Pedro and Don John might be gay?”

And they talked, or rather, Sherlock hypothesized and gesticulated wildly, for a few minutes, until he saw a potential customer lingering in front of Molly’s shop. “Oh, you’ve got an ink victim,” he pointed to the large man across the street with an abundance of tattoos already on both arms. “No, looks like family,” he amended when the man turned slightly and they could see a resemblance to Molly’s uncle, what with the heavy facial hair and all.

“Not everyone who looks like Uncle Robbie is related to me,” she laughed. “But he does look like a customer,” she grabbed her thermos and cups and tossed them into her paper bag before scurrying across the street, “I’ll see you tomorrow!”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking I'll wrap this up soon. And then more chapters come along. I'm so, so sorry (hence the "slow burn" tag added)!

Molly had a busy Friday afternoon and Saturday morning at work, oddly enough, so she was hoping that afternoon would be a bit more relaxed. She really should have known better with Sherlock and Miss Smith, however.

The fireworks started when Miss Smith wanted them to focus on parsing out the play, rather than the performance of it. In other words, the usual set up, which was fine with Molly. Sherlock initially resisted at first, even going so far as to throw tantrums, but the former headmistress wore him down, and he grumpily went along with it, tossing out his theories he’d texted to Molly earlier.

“I’ve heard the ‘Dons might be gay’ theory, arguments have been made for both sides,” Miss Smith shrugged. “Devil’s advocate, why wouldn’t they be straight? Can you show me where it would show Don Pedro or Don John’s preference for women?”

Sherlock huffed, then flipped through the slim playbook he’d borrowed from Miss Smith, although Molly’s sure he’s memorized the damn thing start to finish, as usual. “Fine,” he said, and rattled off the passage where Don Pedro is flirting with Beatrice at the masquerade. “I can’t find any definitive proof for Don John, however,” he said, “he’s too busy railing at the injustice of his station and whinging about being evil to the core. I believe the proper term would be ‘pathetic’.” Then he smirked.

Miss Smith rolled her pale eyes. “He’s not that pathetic if he’s effective enough to fool his half-brother. Shakespeare doesn’t seem to care about making Don John a fully-fleshed out character, he just needed a stock villain, and his sexuality doesn’t come into the picture at all.”

“I would say his closeness to Conrad would say otherwise, but you might label him as simply a right hand man,” Sherlock retorted. “I’m fairly certain he’d put that right hand to various uses, however. What makes you think Don Pedro isn’t gay?”

“I never said he wasn’t,” she answered, “I’d like to think he’s a frustrated and unlucky bisexual.”

“And where would that proof be?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Miss Smith smiled an approving smile before rattling off several passages dealing with Don Pedro’s period-typical misogyny, flirtations with women (like Beatrice) and close comradeship with Benedick and Claudio, along with his interactions with Antonio and Leonato. “I’d like to think Don Pedro and Antonio lived happily ever after with Ursula as their beard-slash-partner,” she smiled.

Molly shook her head at the two of them. “I can’t believe you two are making up your own stories for these characters,” she said, “did he tell you he wanted to marry Hero off to ‘All’s Well’s Helena?”

Miss Smith blinked. “Oh. There’s an idea,” she said, as if she were pleased with the suggestion, “Hero would make a lovely mother to whatever child Helena had.”

Then Molly rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you two,” she groaned, but smiled. “It’s nice that you want the best for these characters.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “You mean ‘cute’, don’t you?” he said.

She looked like she was about to protest, but gave in. “Yeah,” she nodded.

Miss Smith laughed at Sherlock’s disgruntled expression. “It’s all right,” she told him, “embrace your cute side.”

“Shut up,” he scowled, and his scowl deepened when the old woman patted him on the head. “Stop that.”

“If you’re going to behave like a cute little boy, I shall treat you as one,” the white-haired woman smirked.

“I am not _cute_!” he glared at her, affronted.

“You can be,” Miss Smith argued gently. “And you know it.”

He narrowed his eyes again. “We were speaking about couples,” he said stiffly. “Why did Benedick and Beatrice persist in such a long courting? Why weren’t they married already?”

“If they were married already, half the play would have been missing,” Miss Smith rolled her eyes, “and why do you think they should have been?”

“They banter like a married couple,” he said. “That’s how my parents sound like. Well, the in-love part, not the insulting part. Unless my father leaves the lid on the toilet seat up, then my mother gives him a severe tongue-lashing.”

“Really? Your parents sound lovely,” Molly said.

“No, they’re not, they’re embarrassing,” he scowled at her.

“They’re only embarrassing to you because you’re their child,” she countered. “But to someone who’s not their kid, they sound pretty cool.”

“My mother thinks Elvis movies are musicals, remember?” he prompted.

“What?” Miss Smith looked startled, then laughed. “Oh my goodness, I’d love to meet your parents!”

“Thankfully, you won’t have to,” Sherlock said grimly, “they’re too busy gadding about in their retirement. Dad claims he only follows Mum around because she’s hot, but I’m fairly certain he’s playing the fool.”

“If your mum looks anything like you, she must be good-looking for him to play the fool at any age,” Miss Smith grinned.

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t look like her, but Dad said I get my stubbornness from her,” he said. “Then again, she was a mathematician in the 1960s, any woman would have to be stubborn in a male-dominated field.”

“True enough,” Miss Smith grinned. “Fair warning, your parents will live forever due to their libido.”

“Oh, _God_!” he groaned loudly. “ _Why_ are we still talking about _my parents_? Focus on the play, you said!” he glowered at the grinning old woman.

“Well, we can’t talk about my parents, I was an orphan,” Miss Smith said, “and my drunk guardians were more Dickensian than Shakespearean. Molly?”

She shrugged. “My parents loved each other, and when my dad passed about ten years ago, Mum went back to Scotland. We talk once in a while, but she still has these notions that I should’ve been married with ten kids years ago.”

“ _Ten_?” Miss Smith gasped while Sherlock gaped before he realized and shut his mouth quickly.

Molly smiled, “Sorry, exaggerating a bit. More than two, but not sure by how much. She always felt bad I never had a ton of siblings like she wanted to have. I guess she didn’t like much being an only child herself, but she’s got tons of cousins with kids and grandkids up there I can’t even keep track of. So yeah, we don’t quite see eye to eye on some things, but she does care about me in her own way.”

“Trust me, being an only child is a privilege,” Sherlock intoned.

She snorted. “I’ll take your word on it. Some people actually have pleasant relations with their siblings, like my dad and Uncle Robbie, even though they were apart for years and years.”

“One can only hope my brother will take your father and uncle’s lesson to heart,” he said. “Enough talk of him, ‘speak of the devil and he will come’, as the saying goes, and nobody should wish a visit from him. _As I was saying_ , shall we return to discussing the play?”

Molly and Miss Smith smiled at each other, then continued to parse the various relationships within the play without bringing personal matters or relationships to the fore, before moving on to topics like societal expectations of genders and class, to differences and commonalities between current and past definitions of love, honor, pride, and loyalty.

“Fine, we discussed and dissected the bloody play to its bare bones. Are you happy?” he demanded of the former headmistress.

“I’d be happier if you’d finally take a look at the garden,” Miss Smith retorted. “Hopefully they won’t die from your snippiness.”

“They’ve survived with you in charge so far,” Sherlock retorted.

“Go on, then,” she waved him off like a grand dame.

He made a rude expression, then left.

Molly sighed. “I suppose I should take a whack at The Monster, then,” she said, resigned.

“No, you shall sit and serve me tea,” Miss Smith said. “At least for a little while before he comes storming in, demanding you do exactly as you said.”

The brunette smiled, then poured the elder woman a fresh cup. “So you don’t have any family, then?” she asked after a few moments of sipping tea.

“I have a nephew in London,” Miss Smith answered, “well, a cousin’s child, I suppose that would be a second nephew, more precisely. But he’s as stuck up as I’m free-spirited, so we never quite got along, and his money-grubbing wife isn’t much better. You’re fortunate to have a supportive extended family here.”

Molly nodded and smiled. “Yes, well, thankfully we got along when my family lived here, and nobody’s really into that much drama. I’m afraid it makes people desperate for the smallest bit of gossip or silliness, but that’s all right. We’re there for each other when it counts.”

Miss Smith nodded. “I’d learned the hard way that when one member of a clan got detention, every relative joined in for moral support, which meant a number of after-school sports ended up cancelled. It only made me that much more determined to ensure less idiots got into trouble, and I’m afraid your uncle was one it took a while to learn their lesson,” she grinned, and Molly grinned back. “Even though I was clever and strong enough to live on my own terms, I had to build a makeshift family of friends.”

“Sometimes, that’s just as good, though, isn’t it?” Molly said, thinking of her friends from the city. “I think the family you choose can be better than the family you were given, if you’re lucky. I was very lucky that my friends came through for me when I needed them.”

Miss Smith patted her hand. “I was lucky, too,” she said, “but when you get to be my age, they’re hard to hold on to.”

Molly had to hug her after that, so she did. “We’re still here,” she said.


	25. Chapter 25

It was at that moment that Sherlock stormed back in. “Why are you hugging her and not helping me?” he pouted.

The women glanced at each other, but Molly forced herself not to mirror Miss Smith’s grin. “Sorry,” Molly got up and hugged him.

“Not what I meant,” he mumbled, but to her surprise, he hugged her back. To her further surprise, it was a rather nice hug, too, not at all stiff and awkward like she’d expected. “You’re a fairly good hugger, for someone so skinny,” he said when they released each other.

She wrinkled her nose, even though she found herself blushing for no reason. “My sentiments exactly,” she said. “Seriously, you’re actually sturdier than you look.” She patted his arm in an exploratory fashion. “Do you work out in secret or something?”

“I despise overexerting myself,” he said loftily. She raised an eyebrow at him as he went on, “I suppose when I have my manic moments, or when I’m bored, that’s when I get my exercise. I don’t have any other reason to, otherwise.”

“You must get bored a lot,” Molly frowned as she pursed her lips. “Those manic moments, does that intersect with your insomnia?”

“Perhaps,” he said grudgingly, then glared. “Do not try to distract me, you are going to work on The Monster.” He smiled a patently false and saccharine smile at Miss Smith. “So sorry to cut the lecture short, must chat again sometime, the weeds need pruning. Do try not to drool when you nap!”

And he marched Molly out of the room, while she was sputtering out apologies. When they were outside, he handed over the Bucket of Destruction, with gloves and a hat, as well as the necessary tools for dealing with The Monster. “Here you go, try not to kill yourself this time,” he said blithely, and easily ducked her now-laden arms.

Molly narrowed her large brown eyes. “One stupid sentence, Mr. Holmes, and you’ll get an axe in your back,” she grumbled, tying on the hat before slipping the gloves on.

“Looking forward to it,” he gave her just as false a smile as he did to Miss Smith.

She took some deep breaths, then turned and began her attack on the lower left side of the monstrous shrubbery. Thankfully, he only had them out there for an hour and a half, and she made herself stretch every so often. When he yelled that they were done, she had the satisfaction of seeing a nice chunk taken out of The Monster, so that the bottom looked like small animals had torn it off. She grinned, “Take that, Monster.”

“Why are you talking to the weed?” Sherlock asked when she’d loaded up the Bucket of Destruction with the tools and gear.

“You talk to your flowers,” she shrugged, “maybe I can talk it into suicide or something.”

He frowned, but as he turned to the shed, a small smile flitted across his face. “Come along, dinner’s waiting.”

“Where?” she asked, trotting after him.

He waved a free hand. “Mary invited us to dinner,” he said, easily stowing away his and Molly’s tools.

She stopped and stared. “Really? Why?”

He shrugged. “God knows. Either she’s honestly making friendly overtures, or she’s going to poison me for being the latest victim of her husband’s wandering eye.”

“And saucy tongue,” Molly added.

Sherlock made a face. “Yes, that,” he said, locked up the shed, “I’m surprised she trusted me enough to give me directions to their home.”

“She’s going to kill us both, then,” Molly said lightly, “since I’d just be a loose thread.”

“Hm,” he nodded, “pity you left your switchblade at home, of all days.”

“How -- ?” she started, then shook her head. “Never mind. Are you sure she invited both of us, and not just you?”

“Both,” he said, then shrugged as they checked in on Miss Smith, who was already asleep again. Once they were back in the kitchen cleaning the tea set, he continued. “Or she honestly wants her husband to stop flirting with me and just be my friend. I’d prefer acquaintance, but we can’t all have what we want.”

Molly snorted. “I think he would be a good friend, if he let himself,” she smiled as they headed to the car.

He gave her an arch look. “I think I have enough friends already.”

She thought about it when they got buckled in. “I think you have a lot of female friends,” she said, “which isn’t bad, but if Greg’s your only male friend, I think it’d be nice to have someone closer in age.”

He sighed gustily. “To match you and Mary Watson, rather than Miss Smith?”

“I like Miss Smith, but yeah, Mary is closer in age,” she nodded. “And I don’t think friendship is a symmetrical thing, I mean, it’s not like it’s a double-date or anything…” she trailed off, frowning.

“It’s possible that that is exactly what the Watsons are thinking, so we must nip that thought in the bud,” he said.

She quirked a smile. He was rather cute when he was paranoid of romance. “Why, afraid of changing Bea’s diapers if you and John turn out to be chums?”

He gave her a look of horror. “Perhaps it’s best if I’m not friends with John Watson.”

She laughed, and they continued onwards.


	26. Chapter 26

“I’m not changing Bea’s diapers,” are the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth when John Watson opened the door.

“Hello to you, too,” the short blonde man’s eyes turned up in an amused smile when Molly rolled her eyes next to the florist, “welcome.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” Sherlock intoned as he and Molly followed after their host.

Molly nudged him with her elbow. “Behave,” she hissed.

“I am,” he hissed back, then turned a pleasant smile to Mary, who was coming to them with her baby girl. “Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Watson.”

She smiled, a genuine, amused thing. “Thank you for coming and bringing Molly with. Hello, Molly.”

“Hello,” Molly walked up to greet her with a one-armed hug, and smoothed Bea’s sparse hair on her head. “Hello, Bea.” Then she kissed the little girl on her head.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Do you always greet children like that?” he asked.

“No,” Molly smiled. “But I like Mary, and Bea seems friendly enough.”

He gave the child an appraising look. “For now.”

Mary snorted, “Yes, I know you’re not changing her diaper, I wouldn’t ask guests to.”

“Good, we’re still guests!” he beamed down at Molly.

John shook his head. “Right, I’m starving, have a seat, everyone, and help yourselves.” He and Mary took the seats at the dinner table facing the hallway and windows, respectively, the baby chair in between.

Dinner was pasta, garlic bread, and salad greens on the side, with a bit of red wine on the side for the grownups and a bottle of milk for Bea. It was a funny thing, Molly thought, as she found herself being the first one to take a bite per dish. Well, the Watsons were alternately fussing over Bea as well as trying to carry on a conversation, so that couldn’t be helped, but Sherlock was deliberately pausing before taking a bite. Bastard. At least everyone had had at least three bites per option by this point, and nobody had keeled over yet or kicked out horribly like an Agatha Christie novel.

So Molly decided to cut the pleasant chit-chat, even though it was pleasant, and get to it. “I’m sorry, I was really surprised, pleased, but surprised, that you invited us for dinner,” Molly said, “but why did I find out about it through Sherlock?”

Mary blinked. “Well, isn’t he your,” then she frowned and sighed. “I’m so sorry, Molly. God, it has been years since I’ve talked with singles our age who aren’t complaining about urinary infections or possible plastic surgery options,” she rolled her eyes.

John cleared his throat. “Dinner-appropriate,” he murmured.

The blonde woman smiled weakly. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Sherlock sat back and glared at her severely. “You are usually more careful about social niceties than your husband. What are you two up to?”

“They’re not poisoning us,” Molly made a face, “they’ve eaten and drunk the same things we have.”

“Hm,” the tall brunette put his hands into a somewhat prayer-like position near his mouth. “No, you two are definitely up to something.” He gave the doctor a cursory look. “You’ve had at least three rounds of sex per day since the last time I saw you, you miss working under pressure, and the therapist you’ve been seeing for your psychosomatic limp is more preoccupied with relocating to a new city than actually helping her clients, drop her, I’m sure the army can find you a new one.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “And perhaps you should tell Molly why you’re really here, in case you accidentally endanger her with your play at being small-town people.”

“You’re not just a florist, are you?” John said, his voice still friendly, but Molly noted it had an edge of steel to it. “Who are you?”

“I am ‘just a florist’,” Sherlock said, nettled, “best bloody florist this side of England. I am also a genius, a recovering drug addict, and pain in the side of anyone you’ll meet in this town. I am also Greg’s friend, Mrs. Hudson’s renter, and Miss Smith’s gardener. So tell us, who are you?”

The blonde woman sighed. “We were trying to set you up on an informal double-date with us, but I’m afraid all of us are far too paranoid these days, for a multitude of reasons. Can you blame me for wanting to see a little romantic evening that’s not on the telly?”

“I’d like a straight answer for once this evening, Mrs. Watson,” he said, “if indeed that is your name.”

“I gave you one,” she said, “but that’s not the one you want, is it?”

“Mary, you don’t,” John started, but she put her hand on his.

“It’s all right,” she said, “I can see why you trust them. He’s horribly curious and brutally honest, and she’s terribly sweet and well-protected.” She squeezed her husband’s hand, then forced herself to stare Sherlock Holmes square in the face, because she knew sooner or later, it would come to this. Might as well be sooner. “A story, then. A little over a year ago, I did the last bad thing I hope I’ll ever do. My husband’s still in the process of forgiving me, but he, he understood why I did it. And rather than leaving me to my fate and taking Bea with him, he said he had a friend, who in turn had a friend with some reach. That friend couldn’t erase everything, but it would give us some time to raise Bea, to have a life.” She lifted her chin. “And one day, I’ll earn the name Mary Watson. Because I married a good man named John Watson, a good, reliable man with a good, common name, and a good, uncommon heart. I can’t promise that my past won’t surface again, even out here, but I can promise that I will do everything I can to minimize the damage, and if I have to go deep again, I will. My husband, and especially my baby, deserves that.”

“You’re a bit scary, aren’t you,” Molly blinked.

Mary shifted her intense gaze off of Sherlock and smiled a bit at the little brunette. “Understatement of the year, love,” she said.

“Hey, I invaded Afghanistan,” John protested.

“You weren’t the only one,” Mary smirked at him, but their tone and timing had the rhythm of a long-argued point. “But you are awfully sexy with a gun, dear.”

“As are you,” he smiled his slow, flirty smile at her.

“Oh, God, just _kiss_ already,” Sherlock groaned as he put his head in his hands. “It’s nauseating to see all that sentiment and rot floating about, you might as well just get it over with.”

A corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “Never heard of it called ‘sentiment and rot’ before, thought it was called a ‘confession’,” he said. “Or ‘truth’.” He raised an eyebrow at his wife, who wrinkled an ‘I’m sorry’ on her face. “You’re lucky you got this version without getting shot at.”

“You liked getting shot at,” Mary said archly.

“I would’ve liked it better if I had my gun,” he shot back, then smiled weakly. “Not that I have one, of course.”

“You’re in a small town, of course you have a gun,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And you have a small child to protect, I’m surprised you don’t have anti-aircraft munitions stashed in that forest you call a backyard.” He waved his hands about. “Will you two be disgustingly marital and just kiss each other?”

“Oh, he wants us to be ‘disgustingly marital’,” John grinned a filthy grin at his wife. “I don’t mind if they watch, do you?”

“Oh my God,” Molly blushed.

“Oh, she _does_ do that!” Mary clapped. Then she grabbed her husband’s face and gave him a loud kiss. “You are a rascal!”

Molly leaned against her left hand. “And I’m confused.”

Sherlock sighed. “At least they sort of kissed, it was getting unbearable.”

Molly snorted. “I’m sure they’ll do their real one when we go home. Speaking of,” she nodded at Bea, who was drooping in her baby chair, “we should get going.” 

She pushed her seat back, but it was Sherlock who held out her sweater to slide her arms in. “Thank you so much for dinner, I hope you enjoy your stay in our town and don’t get bombed or anything, and try not to have sexual congress so loud it wakes the baby. Again.” And he steered Molly out the door as she tried to babble her apologies. 

“Sorry, we’ll see you tomorrow at Miss Smith’s, John!” Molly called out from the doorway as the Watsons forwent the polite seeing-off and settled for laughing quietly in their chairs, so as not to wake the baby.

“Don’t apologize,” he muttered as they made their way to the car, “they were practically in each other’s laps.”

“No, they weren’t,” Molly frowned. “I was there, and they weren’t.”

“They wanted to be,” he said grimly, “John really wasn’t joking about that.”

Molly closed her eyes and exhaled. That was an odd dinner. The meal was delicious, but the conversation was definitely weird. And she’d talked to Miss Smith, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson, so that was saying something. “Were they telling the truth?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh,” she murmured, and they were silent the rest of the trip, each lost in their own thoughts.


	27. Chapter 27

“So.” Molly stared at Sherlock, who stared back at her.

“What does that mean?” he frowned.

She was standing in her tattoo parlor with her hands on her hips. “So, are we going to just pretend that last night never happened?”

Sherlock frowned harder. “What do you mean?” He’s fairly certain nothing untoward happened last night. He was only mildly tipsy from the few sips of wine, and he deposited Molly safely to her home. They said good night, and that was it.

She sighed. “What John and Mary told us,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I think it’s going to be weird for me to behave normally around him. And her.”

Oh. That. He’d thought it was interesting up until the point where the woman known as Mary Watson told them practically everything, and then it got boring. Well, for him, at least. Apparently, Molly needed a bit more time to get used to what he thought was old news. “Just because you know their background, it won’t change their current situation,” he said. “They will still be the mother of an eight month-old girl, they will still be working as a doctor and nurse at that tiny hospital, and they will still make sexually inappropriate jokes. Well, hopefully, the last should occur less often, now that they’re back to having a more active sex life.”

“Really didn’t need or want to know that last bit,” Molly winced. “It’s weird hearing stuff like that about your friends.”

“Ah, so you still regard them as friends,” he whirled on her with a more intense gaze. “But you seemed hesitant to treat them as such less than a minute ago.”

“Sherlock!” she glared, then sighed. He was right. After all, he did bare his own secret to her, too, and she hadn’t treated him any differently when he’d told her of his past. She’d like to argue that that was different, he wasn’t some highly trained killer, or whatever Mary Watson was. But he’d done some rather despicable things in his past, too, not just to himself, but to his own family and others around him. “Fine,” she said. “But if I start acting twitchy, I’ll try to calm myself down.”

“You always act twitchy,” he said with a smirk.

“Shut up,” she grumbled while he steered her out the door and towards his car. “Anyways, on a different note, why haven’t you hugged me back earlier?”

“What do you mean?” he said blandly, as if he hadn’t been pondering the question last night into the morning.

“I mean, you’re a really good hugger,” she said. “I was a bit surprised, since you’ve never reciprocated before, and you seem to just tolerate being hugged. It’s just, I don’t know, the only time you touch people is to steer them or punch them out.”

“I don’t do that,” he argued, then realized he was still pushing her onward and dropped his hands. “Shut up.”

“Point proven,” Molly smirked, then continued the topic when they were buckled in. “So, as I’ve said, I was rather surprised you were a good hugger. I mean, when was the last time you hugged someone back?”

He pursed his lips briefly. “My parents, before I moved here,” he said, and started driving.

She blinked. From previous conversations, that was about five years or so ago. Wow. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” he murmured.

“Okay, then why did you decide to hug me back?” she pressed on. “Not that I want to discourage a repeat, but why did you?”

I’ve been wondering that myself for ages, Sherlock thought, but aloud, he merely said, “That’s a very good question, Miss Hooper. I’m sure you have your theories.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, which surprised him. “I didn’t mean to tease you.”

“You weren’t,” he said, “I’ve been wondering the same myself.”

“Did you come up with an answer?” she asked.

“None satisfactory,” he said. “However, I would like to repeat it again, if you don’t mind.”

She smiled. “I don’t mind. It’s nice getting hugs as well as giving them.”

He nodded. “Research shows that hugs are extremely effect at communicating trust, boosting oxytocin levels, lifting serotonin levels, strengthens the immune system, relaxes muscles, and lowers blood pressure and stress levels.”

“All very good reason why people should hug, but doesn’t say what changed your mind,” Molly nodded back.

“I,” he started, then paused. “I wanted to return it. Fully. I usually have a hard time returning hugs, or don’t understand why I’m getting one in the first place, so I often don’t bother. But I wanted to return it that time. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s all I have.” He scowled, unhappy with the lack of logic and understanding.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out about it. I feel really lucky now.” Then a thought struck her. “You know, we should hug Miss Smith more. Considering all those health benefits you cited, she needs them more than anyone.”

“I’ll hug her for you,” Sherlock said quickly, “we don’t need to put ideas into her head.”

Molly laughed. “I’ve already been hugging her, but thank you.”

He harrumphed, and she giggled a bit more.

It wasn’t long before they pulled up to her house. “This should be John’s final house call,” Sherlock said, “if she’s improved as much as she seems to have. So best to clear the air of any odd thoughts or ‘twitchiness’, as you might say, since I have no idea if Mary intends to keep inviting us over, or if she simply wanted to get that over and done with.”

“I can be a grownup,” Molly said, lifting her chin like Sherlock would.

“The fact that you phrased it that way makes me wonder,” he smirked, the smirk deepening when she automatically grabbed the crate from between her legs and carried it out of the car.

And he was determined to be a better grownup than she was, and succeeded up until the point when he tried to hug Miss Smith. Nope. It was back to his usual awkward back-patting. He pulled back and glared. “Why isn’t it working?”

Miss Smith looked just as surprised, then laughed. “Oh my goodness,” she gasped, “were you trying to hug me?” His scowl answered her question. “You should give one to Molly first before you try again with me.” He scowled harder. “Just a suggestion from a sick old lady,” she put her hands up in a placating manner.

“Not that sick,” he grumbled, and put his arms around Molly. She hugged him, and he hugged her back. Over the smaller brunette’s shoulder, he said, “Why is it working with her and not with you?”

“Maybe because I started it?” Molly suggested as she held on to him. He really felt quite nice, and yes, quite fit. Oh my God…

“Perhaps that’s it,” Sherlock said, and disengaged from the hug reluctantly. He wondered at the reluctance, then concluded that was probably because it was more satisfactory than the one he tried to give to Miss Smith first. He really shouldn’t have to deal with odd thoughts when hugging cute tattoo artists, dismissed the adjective applied, and ignored it all to focus on the task at hand. “Okay, your turn,” he told the elderly woman on the bed.

Miss Smith smirked, then reached for him. Her hug was like one holding on to a lifeline, so he returned it as such. It wasn’t as immediately comfortable as Molly’s, but it was much better than his initial attempt. “Okay, sit down a bit, you’re rather tall,” the white-haired woman said.

“All right,” he murmured, and did just that. Oh. That was more comfortable.

“Good for you!” Molly clapped, and he glared, as un-grownup as one could be. “What? You’re getting better at it!”

“Come on,” Miss Smith motioned the younger woman over, “I don’t see why this has to be just a two-person hug.”

Molly eyed the bed, then clambered on, making sure not to dislodge either, especially Miss Smith, and did her best to hug them both.

“That looks nice,” John’s voice broke in, and they looked up. “Mind if I join in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said firmly, while Miss Smith said, “No” at the same time. Molly just giggled and sat back.

“I’ll need everyone except the exceptional Miss Smith to scoot off the bed so I can check her vitals,” the blonde doctor said, and Sherlock and Molly did their requisite scooting. “Is this a new thing, group hugs?”

“It just turned out that way,” Molly smiled as she poured the tea. “We figured we could start giving Miss Smith her hugs-a-day to keep the doctor away, since this is your last house call.”

“Now I’m jealous,” John pursed his lips in displeasure. “All this hugging to keep me away. That’s not nice.”

“I’m sure you’re a very nice hugger,” Miss Smith said in a false, consoling manner. “You poke me often enough, I ought to be recompensed.”

He giggled, and Molly couldn’t help but smile. She noticed even Sherlock sported a small smile at the infectiously-happy giggle. “Well, then, as a doctor and a gentleman, allow me to hug you after this one last shot, madam.”

“You may,” she said as regally as one could while in one’s nightgown in one’s bed. Which, apparently, was pretty damn regal, considering she pulled the aura of royalty right there.

“Yes’m,” the doctor saluted her smartly, then prepared the syringe before injecting her with the final shot. “You’re doing quite well, and I’ll actually have to make one last visit to make sure the shots have taken. Thank you for being a good patient, and have a lovely day.” Then he leaned over and hugged her without reserve, and Sherlock felt a pang of jealousy that the shorter man got it right the first time off. The pang wore off rather quickly when the old woman’s hands went lower, getting a firm grasp on the doctor’s arse. John leaned back and laughed. “You saucy minx!” he said, his expression delighted rather than forbidding.

“You should try it, it’s nice and firm,” she winked at Molly, who rolled her eyes while Sherlock groaned.

“There will be no further grabbing of bottoms or private parts during hugs,” the florist said sternly.

“Oh, that’s a pity,” the doctor smiled unrepentantly. “My bum does like a good squeeze now and then.”

“Tell your loving wife to do that, then,” Sherlock gritted out, and doctor and patient laughed at him. “Shut up.”

Molly would love to shake some sense into the people who should know better, but she won’t, because somebody has to be the grownup around here. At least she didn’t feel awkward around John like she thought she’d be, but this was ridiculous. “Let’s stick to normal hugs, all right?”

“That’s no fun,” Miss Smith pouted. “Hug him, doctor,” she smiled evilly, and the good doctor did just that.

“Hey!” the florist yelped, but fortunately for him, it was a rather chaste, brief sort of hug. “Okay,” he said grudgingly when he stepped back.

“Okay,” the doctor smiled, amused. Then he turned to Miss Smith, the smile lingering. “I’ll see you next Sunday, and let’s hope this lot keeps you in hugs. He’s got a rather nice one for a skinny bloke.”

“I’m not that skinny,” Sherlock argued, but the doctor was already out the door. “His bedside manner has much to be desired.”

“Oh, I like his bedside manner,” Miss Smith smiled. Her smile turned saucy as she added, “His backside manner is quite nice, too.” When the younger inhabitants of the room groaned, she said in a overly-soothing manner, “Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock, you look like you’ve got a nice round bum yourself, in spite of being so skinny.”

“Will you stop talking about bums!” he shouted, blushing in spite of himself.

“Would you rather I touched yours than just talk about it?” Miss Smith teased.

“You’ve already fondled John’s, I think you’ve had your share of illicit groping for the decade,” Sherlock scolded.

“I disagree,” Miss Smith said, folding her arms. “I’m sure there are health benefits for bum-touching like there are for hugs. Maybe you should touch his bottom, Molly, since he won’t let me?”

The tattoo artist raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, although secretly, she agreed with the evil old lady that Sherlock’s bum looked rather round for a skinny bloke. “I agree with Sherlock,” Molly said as primly as she could, trying to keep her thoughts clean, since both Sherlock and Miss Smith seemed to have a preternatural tendency to read her mind at the most awkward times. “Anyways, I thought we were here for acting lessons this time?” she threw out a bit desperately.


	28. Chapter 28

“Oh, yes!” Miss Smith clapped her hands. “How is that going along?”

“We haven’t started yet,” Molly shrugged apologetically. “We had dinner at John and Mary’s last night, and I was so tired that I just went to sleep. But Sherlock’s pretty good, I don’t think you have to worry about him.” Then she sighed. “I know I’m going to need a lot of help.”

“Well, at least you ask for help,” the former headmistress said graciously. “Why don’t you find the first lines, and you can read aloud. We’ll take it from there.”

Molly nodded, then grabbed her battered version of the play off the tea tray, while Sherlock passed Miss Smith hers from her bedside table.

“I pray you, is Signor Mountanto returned from the   
wars or no?” she read Beatrice’s first line flatly, like reading instructions from a manual. She continued on, with no differentiation for Hero’s first line, “My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.”

Sherlock looked mildly aghast while Miss Smith only frowned as Molly, her face in the book, continued to read aloud in a flat, disjointed manner. “Is this how you normally read out loud?” Sherlock asked when she paused for breath.

Molly grimaced, wanting to hide her face behind the book, but put it down and her eyes followed it. “Always. I was so grateful when we got to read silently. And doing presentations were just as bad.” She finally looked up to see her friends not judging her, but wanting to understand and help. It lessened her embarrassment a bit, enough that she went on, “It’s hard to sound conversational when the words are artificial and flowery. Then again, I’d find it hard even if it weren’t. How do you make it sound like it makes sense?” she groaned.

Sherlock answered, “Beatrice’s first line is basically: ‘Excuse me, is Signior Show-off survived the wars?”

She nodded, then bit her lip and re-read it haltingly in Sherlock’s cadence, but still rather flat. “It’s like reading in another language,” she grumbled.

“It _is_ another language,” Miss Smith smiled, “language changes so quickly, and it’s been hundreds of years since Shakespeare walked the earth. I’m fairly certain nobody spoke like Beatrice and Benedick, either, unless they were courtiers or onstage themselves.”

“Ugh,” Molly made another face.

Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at the recalcitrant student Molly Hooper was turning out to be, but he decided not to. He might as well hold that card in play for later. “I thought you liked this play,” he said.

“I do,” Molly said, “but it’s easier to enjoy it when someone else is doing the hard work for you.” She winced. “Gosh, it really is work, isn’t it? Actors make it look so easy, but I suppose it’s because it’s their job, not just natural talent.”

“Natural talent helps,” Miss Smith gave a sideways glance at Sherlock, who was scrolling down his mobile for his version of the play, “but practice and understanding help, too. That’s why there’s such thing as rehearsals. We can all learn something in the process.” The former headmistress added, “Perhaps we should start with directions already. It might make more sense to you if we find Beatrice’s attitude first, and then you can adopt it. The sound before the sense, I suppose.”

Molly pulled her mouth to the side. “Okay,” she said doubtfully.

“So, tell me what Beatrice is like to you.”

The long-haired brunette exhaled loudly. “Everything I’m not. Mostly.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Smith asked, amused, but curious.

“Well,” Molly leaned forward, “she’s so good with words, no matter who she’s talking to. I always manage to say something wrong, or silly, or awkward,” she shrugged, “especially if it’s someone I like. But even when she’s being silly and eavesdropping, Beatrice keeps her wits about her. And she’s smart, and even when her humor is self-deprecating, she doesn’t dumb herself down for others.” She sighed enviously. “I can’t believe the time I’ve wasted trying to pretend I was stupider than I was for some good-looking idiot, just so he’d feel better about himself. That was fairly stupid of me.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m a genius, so everyone’s an idiot in comparison,” Sherlock smirked, and she rolled her eyes.

“You also have no problem with self-esteem, so that’s something I don’t have to worry about,” Molly grinned.

“True,” he nodded, and Miss Smith rolled her eyes, still amused that these two automatically put themselves in the roles of lovers without even dealing with the implications of what they were saying. Truly, she had her work cut out for her, but at least she can start with putting them in Shakespeare’s couple deliberately.

“To recap, your idea of Beatrice is intelligent and well-spoken,” she said. Molly nodded. “Anything else?”

“She’s also very protective of her cousin Hero,” Molly said, “and loyal to her family, even when she thinks they’re wrong. She’s brave, too, wanting to avenge her cousin’s shame and duel Claudio when she thinks Benedick won’t do it. But she’s also very feminine, flirting with men at a party, being something of an older sister to Hero, and,” she shrugged again, “I like that she’s clever and everyone expects that of her.”

“So Beatrice is your Hero,” Sherlock punned, even though he’d once said punning was the lowest form of humor.

Molly tilted her head at him with a wry expression. “We’re going there already? That’s horrible, and you know it.”

“It was good, and you know it,” he lifted his nose.

“ ‘A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours’,” Molly shot back with a quote, lifting her nose in the same manner.

The old woman shot up in her bed so quickly that they both stared at her. “There!” Miss Smith pointed excitedly. “Say it like that! That’s _exactly_ how Beatrice is like! Especially when she talks to Benedick!”

Molly looked at her, lost. “But, I was just talking back to him,” she flapped a hand at Sherlock.

“Yes, and that’s how Beatrice talks,” Miss Smith pressed her case, “she doesn’t really do monologues, she isn’t a tragic heroine. She banters, and flirts, and teases, and encourages, and self-deprecates. She talks to _people_ , and perhaps that’s what you need. You need to practice reading your lines with other people, so you know how she sounds like.”

Molly looked horrified. “But that means other people will have to listen,” she said.

“Yeeeeeees,” Sherlock drawled. “You do want to improve your performance, do you not?”

But the tattoo artist was getting more than a bit panicked. “Can’t I just, just practice with you?” Molly stammered.

“You can, but can’t you practice with others as well?” he asked, confused.

“It’s _embarrassing_!” Molly finally wailed. “Pretending to act, but sounding like a robot before I get good, it’s horrible!”

“You’ll need to practice somehow, and I can’t always be there,” Sherlock said reasonably. “Besides, your character talks with different sorts of people, wouldn’t it be a good idea to practice with all sorts?”

“What part of ‘embarrassing’ don’t you get?” Molly glared at him. He still looked at her blankly, and she sighed. Oh dear, that’s right, he didn’t get embarrassed. He got irritated, smug, impatient, childish, silly, and occasionally sweet, but never embarrassed. Dammit. “Fine,” she gritted out, “but I’m only practicing with my uncle and Mrs. Hudson.”

“That’s fine,” Miss Smith said soothingly, “after all, most of the other characters are of different classes. You can’t be talking to a public school boy all of the time.”

Both women laughed when he puffed up in indignation. “I can talk like other people!” he glared.

“Good, because you’ll have to for the other parts,” Miss Smith smiled sweetly. “But in the meantime, let’s focus on Beatrice, shall we?”

And, much to Molly’s dismay, they continue slowly and painfully on, as she dutifully read like she had to dutifully read it, rather than reading it aloud like she actually liked the play. When they’d reached the end of Molly’s lines in Act 1, Molly raised both her hands like an Olympic athlete at the end of their run. “YES!” she shouted, and Miss Smith laughed, but couldn’t blame her. The poor girl was honestly dragging through it like the worst of her students with reading problems. And the thing was, Molly _was_ intelligent, she _could_ read, and she understood the characters. It was just a matter of getting her to sound like it as she read that was making Miss Smith want to tear her hair out, since her hair was entirely white already.

“Right, let’s have a rest,” Miss Smith smiled when Sherlock sighed loudly in relief. “A bit of homework for you, Sherlock, since Molly’s having a time and a half of it. Write an original melody for ‘Sigh No More’.”

“What?” Sherlock stared at her. “That’s not fair.”

“Are you saying you can’t?” the elderly woman asked.

“Of course I can,” he bristled, “but why bother?”

“Oh, I thought you needed a bit of a challenge to balance Molly,” Miss Smith shrugged.

“Fine,” he growled, completely ignoring Molly’s embarrassed face. “Hug.”

The old woman snorted, but gamely opened her arms, and the tall man hunched over to accommodate her smaller frame. “Much better,” Miss Smith smiled. “Your turn, Molly.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, and gave the elder woman a good, strong hug. “Take care.”

“See you in a couple of nights,” Miss Smith waved them off.


	29. Chapter 29

“Uncle, I need your help,” Molly said, looking very embarrassed Monday at lunch.

“Oh, what’s that?” her bearded uncle asked.

The smaller brunette pulled out a battered old playbook. “Sherlock and I are reading ‘Much Ado’ to Miss Smith,” she said. “But I sound horrible. I mean, I sound exactly like I did when I was in primary, and I want to sound like him.”

“You want to sound like Sherlock?” her uncle grimaced.

She blinked, then laughed. “What? No! I mean, I want to sound good like him! He makes the characters sound like real people, but I sound like,” she grimaced, “like I’m reading a list of car parts.”

“Oi, talk about that with love, dear,” he mock-scolded her, and she giggled. “Right, where do we start?”

“Here,” she said, opening it to Act 2. “Do you know the story?”

“Sorta,” he frowned, trying to recall. “It’s funny, right?”

“Some of it,” she nodded, “it’s a comedy, but there are sad bits, too. In this part, they’re at Leonato’s house, waiting for the party to start. My job is playing all the women, so Beatrice is Leonato’s niece, Hero is his daughter, and Antonio is his brother, no kids.” She handed the book over.

The bearded man nodded. “Right, then.” He hunched over, then squinted as he read, “ ‘Was not Count John here at supper?’ ” He paused. “Who’s Count John?”

“Don John,” she answered, “a guest of Leonato and a bad guy.”

“Huh, okay,” he said, and continued on. “ ‘I saw him not’.” Then he passed it to her. “Your turn. Beatrice is the niece, right?”

She picked it up. “Right.” She held the book close to her face like her uncle. “ ‘How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see  
him but I am heart-burned an hour after.’ ” Then she went on, “This is the daughter, Hero.” She grinned at her uncle’s confused expression. “It could be girl’s name back then, I suppose. ‘He is of a very melancholy disposition.’ ” Then she paused. “Okay, it’s the niece, Beatrice, the rest of the way. ‘He were an excellent man that were made just in the  
midway between him and Benedick: the one is too  
like an image and says nothing, and the other too  
like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.’ Your turn.”

“Who’s Benedick?” he asked.

“The one everyone’s setting Beatrice up with,” she answered. “He talks a lot.”

“Okay,” he grunted. “ ‘Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's  
mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior  
Benedick's face,--’ ” He broke off. “That’s disgusting,” he grimaced when he handed it back to her.

She laughed. “I think her uncle’s just teasing her, not talking about making a Frankenstein monster. Not unlike a certain uncle of mine,” she nudged him, and he smiled grudgingly. “ ‘With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money  
enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman  
in the world, if a' could get her good-will.’ ” She grinned. “See?”

“Hmph,” he said, “ ‘By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a  
husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.’ ‘In faith, she’s too curst.’ ” He grinned. “Even with the fancy old words, it’s like he knows you.”

“Stop that,” she glared, and took the book back. “ ‘Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's  
sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst  
cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.’ Translation,” she said, heading off his question, “being ‘too ill-tempered’ is different than just ‘ill-tempered’. So she’ll escape God’s punishment that He gives an ill-tempered cow short horns’ because it says nothing about a really ill-tempered cow. It was weird, so I had to look it up before I asked your help.”

He smiled when he took it from her. “Good to know.” And they spent the rest of their extended lunch hour going through the start of Act 2 before the masquerade started and the rest of the characters show up to muddle both uncle and niece.

“Thank you,” Molly said, hugging him, “it really helped a lot.”

Meanwhile, Sherlock was driving his customers to distraction with his violin playing and distracted note-scribbling, snapping at anyone who broke his concentration.

“It’s as if you don’t want to pay your rent, what with that racket,” Mrs. Hudson smirked when she brought in a tea tray for the afternoon.

But he didn’t hear her, he only picked up his violin, played the same four chords he’d been scratching through earlier, and scribbled more notes onto his much-crossed-through paper. A few minutes later, he looked up, and the tea tray was sitting on the counter. “Finally,” he muttered, and stuffed his face with a scone before pouring himself a cup of cooled tea.

He was halfway through his plate when his landlady came back. “Oh, I see you’ve finally started,” she said.

“Hm? Oh yes,” he murmured.

“Why are you scraping at that poor violin now?” she scolded.

Sherlock gave her a blank look. “You seemed to disapprove when I composed at night,” he said, “so I’m compromising and doing it now.”

His landlady sighed. “You know, you could do it after work, and before I’m off to bed.”

“That’s even less time than I have now!” he complained.

But she only pursed her lips and gave him a “not putting up with your mess” face. “You call yourself a genius, I’m sure you can figure out a way to compose without it interfering with your work or my sleep,” she said.

He narrowed his pale eyes, then nodded. “Fine,” he snapped, “but if the roses lose their color, it’s on your head.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” she said, then picked up the tea tray. She’s fairly certain it has something to do with the play Robbie Hooper was talking about, but why Sherlock should be so intent on making such an abominable racket was beyond her.

And, true to his word, he found a way, although it involved him locking himself up in his room once his visits to Miss Smith were done, headset plugged into his laptop, as he perused one video after another. His mobile pinged his landlady’s usual bedtime, and he started scratching away at his notepaper, then watching more videos, then back to scratching, then doing something like air violin, frowning, and then more composing.

By the time he looked up a few key websites, it was past five in the morning, and he made himself a cup of coffee. He smirked that he hadn’t once woken up his landlady, and then he went back to his laptop, settling in to watch more videos.

He’d gotten several ideas on how the song would shape up to by the time he showered and got dressed for work, but was content to merely be presentable, acerbic, and intelligent by the time Robbie Hooper came in for his rose.


	30. Chapter 30

“So, how’s your homework coming along?” Miss Smith asked them both when they came by Tuesday night.

“Ugh,” Molly sighed. “It helped understanding the play a bit more when I have to explain it to others, but I’m not sure I’m improving in my performance.”

“And you?” Miss Smith turned to Sherlock.

He shrugged negligently. “It’s coming along,” he said.

She gave him a long look. “For most people, that means they haven’t even touched it, but knowing you, you’ve probably obsessed over it several different ways.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, then proceeded to fill his mouth with tea.

Molly made a face. “Well, I guess I’ll have to give it another go, then,” she said dispiritedly.

“Nope, it’s Sherlock’s turn,” Miss Smith said. “From the top, Act 1, Scene 1.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, but dutifully swiped at his mobile and read aloud, “ ‘I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon   
comes this night to Messina’.” The voice is that of Robbie Hooper, and Molly gave him a look of disbelief. He ignored her, his eyes still on his mobile, and went on in an unfamiliar, nasally streetwise voice, “ ‘He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him.’ ”

“Which poor unfortunate soul have you borrowed for that?” Miss Smith asked.

“Some graffiti artist,” he shrugged, “almost got himself caught up in a triad, of all things. Shall I go on?”

Miss Smith raised an eyebrow. “If you must,” she teased.

He narrowed his eyes, then continued in Molly’s uncle’s voice, “ ‘How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?’ ”

Then to the unknown graffiti artist, “ ‘But few of any sort, and none of name.’ ”

“ ‘A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings  
home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath  
bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio,’ ” he continued as Leonato.

Finally, Molly couldn’t take it any more. “I’m seriously going to punch you,” she glared. “Why my uncle?”

He broke off with a wide grin that reminded her of the Grinch. “Because he’s your uncle, and he’s Beatrice’s uncle,” he answered.

She punched him, and he laughed, and so did Miss Smith, to Molly’s consternation. She was hoping the former headmistress would be on her side, but apparently not. “Evil runs in pairs, I see,” she glowered.

“It is rather fitting,” Miss Smith said between ungainly giggles. “Don’t pout, dear, you’re almost as cute as Sherlock when you do that.” Both Molly and Sherlock glared at her this time. Excellent. “Go on, dear,” she prompted Sherlock.

“I’m nobody’s dear,” he said, but went on in the same manner until it was Beatrice’s first lines. “Your turn, dear,” he said ironically with a hand flourish.

“Shut up,” she said in just the same manner, then put on a fake smile with lots of teeth and read, “ ‘I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the   
wars or no?’ ”

Miss Smith didn’t bother to pause them as Sherlock responded as the clueless messenger, “ ‘I know none of that name, lady: there was none such  
in the army of any sort.’ ”

“ ‘My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua,’ ” Molly read on, with less of an attitude.

“ ‘O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was,’ ” Sherlock responded in as pleased as guttersnipe as he could be.

Molly narrowed her eyes. “ ‘He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged  
Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading  
the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged  
him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he  
killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath  
he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.’ ”

Sherlock put on a surprised look. “ ‘Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much;  
but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.’ ”

“Oh, honestly?” Molly cried out, and punched his arm again. “I can’t practice with a straight face with my uncle ever again, you jerk!”

He grinned, and this time, it was the pleased sort of smile he rarely wore. “Good,” he said, and laughed when she tried to punch him again and he dodged. “Ha, missed!” And he clambered over the furniture, and even onto Miss Smith’s bed as he continued to dodge her.

“Children, CHILDREN!” she thundered as they were stepping all over her bed, and they stopped. “Will you two sit down and behave?” she said quellingly, and they both returned to their seats, chastened.

“Sorry, Miss Smith,” they chorused without meaning to, and they glanced at each other, daring the other to start laughing, even as their own mouth twitched to do so.

The old woman sighed. “We were doing so well,” she unknowingly echoed thousands of Sherlock’s previous teachers over the years, and in the same tone, too.

“She started it,” he jerked a thumb at Molly.

“I did not, you started it when you used my uncle’s voice!” she glared.

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she stuck hers back, and Miss Smith regained her equilibrium when she said, “If you two keep doing that, you’ll have to change my bedpan.” Horrified, they both sat back, and the elderly woman wondered how she managed to have two unruly children in the bodies of a grown man and woman who’d otherwise be a lovely couple. “Right. Since it’s clear we won’t get any further work done, time for hugs.” She held her arms out, and Molly jumped in first.

“Sorry, Miss Smith,” she said as she hugged the older woman.

Sherlock echoed her when it was his turn, and Miss Smith only sighed and looked up at the ceiling when they left. “Thank God the bet wasn’t for them shagging,” she grumbled, “or I’d never make my money back.”

Meanwhile, back in the car, Sherlock and Molly had an uneasy conversation. “It does make a lot of sense to make Leonato sound like your uncle,” Sherlock began without apology. “The interactions would ring true.”

“I suppose,” Molly grumbled with little grace, “but…” she trailed off. “Now that I barely have an idea of how to sound like Beatrice, I don’t know how to make Hero sound different. I mean, it’s unfair that you have all these sources for your voices, and you can completely sound like them and act and everything. But I don’t know how to make Beatrice sound different from Hero, to sound different from Ursula or Margaret. And it’s pathetic that I can’t even make only four women sound different from each other!”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Try and make Margaret sound like Mary,” he said, “I’m using John’s voice for Borachio.”

“What?” Molly stared at him, then thought about it and laughed. “God, Sherlock, that’s terrible. Funny, but terrible.”

“So are they,” he said, and shrugged.

She shook her head. “Is that how you do it, then,” she said, “use other people’s voices to fit the character? Then who’s Don Pedro and Don John?”

“Don Pedro is my brother, and Don John was my ex-drug dealer,” he replied succinctly.

“Oh,” Molly said. “Sorry.”

“Why?” he frowned briefly. “They actually fit their characters quite well.”

She processed that for a few seconds, then nodded. “All right, then.”

After a few moments, Sherlock said, “I could coach you at home, if you wish. Do you have anything pressing in the morning?”

“Aside from not waking up then? Not really,” Molly grinned.

“Excellent. I believe we shall need at least a pot of tea,” he grinned back.


	31. Chapter 31

Molly came out to the living room with a tea tray to find Sherlock flopped across her sofa. Of course he would. She sighed, set the tea tray on the table, and pushed the chair closer to the table, because obviously, he’d take the biggest and closest seat for tea. “My uncle and I stopped before the party in Act 2,” she said.

“What do you think Hero looks like?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

The smaller brunette blinked, then sat down. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He waved a negligent hand. “Humor me. If this were a Disney cartoon, what would Hero look like?”

Molly stared, rather imagining a smaller version of Sherlock in short trousers watching “Beauty and the Beast,” and laughed. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes when he glared at her, obviously divining the horrible image in her brain, “you started it.”

He grumbled, “We can’t rely on different costumes to differentiate characters, so there goes that crutch, as it’s only a staged reading. Since you don’t have anyone to base the character on like I do, perhaps you can put something in your head. And we can work towards that image, whatever it might be.”

She nodded, her eyebrows raised. Well, that could work. Maybe. “Hero,” she paused, “Hero reminds me of Sleeping Beauty. They tell her of love, she sees a handsome young man, and then she unwittingly goes with whatever plan they have for her. He could be a complete dickhead, but they talk about Claudio like he’s Prince Charming, Don Pedro especially, so she buys into the image.” She shook her head. “Of course, Claudio _does_ turn out to be a complete dickhead, but who’s counting?”

He snorted. “So, Sleeping Beauty, hm? Do you think Ursula and Margaret are like the fairy godmothers, then?”

Molly thought about it, then laughed. “Oh my goodness, that’s funny. But I’m not sure how Hero would _sound_ like, if she were Sleeping Beauty.”

He raised a thick eyebrow at her. “Like a sweet, innocent blonde girl,” he deadpanned. “Not completely vacant, but on her way there with a bit of help from everyone.”

She giggled. “Horrible, Sherlock, completely horrible. So stereotyped.”

“And yet you know exactly how she sounds like in your head, don’t you?” he said, egging her on.

She narrowed her large eyes. “Perhaps,” she said grudgingly.

“Excellent!” he clapped. And after taking a good-sized sip (more of a gulp, really) of tea, he tossed her playbook at her. “Open to Act 2, Scene 1, with Don Pedro wooing Hero in place of the inept Claudio.”

She snorted, but did so. “All right,” she said. “So, Don Pedro?” she raised an eyebrow.

“ ‘Lady,’ ” Sherlock’s voice changed, still high-class, but more polite and somehow more older and powerful (how on earth did he sound like that?), “ ‘will you walk with your friend?’ ”

She might as well go all out, it was just Sherlock sitting there. “ ‘So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,’ ” she said, with a flutter of her eyelashes and forcing her voice at least an octave and a half higher,  
“ ‘I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.’ ”

He grinned an “I know what you’re doing, even though you think you’re so clever” grin. “Oh, Lord, don’t do that to your voice,” he shook his head, “she doesn’t speak all that much, but do it if you think you can handle it when she does.”

She was somewhat gratified at the response, which surprised her. “Well, I was just being silly,” she said.

“And she is meant to be silly, if tragic,” he nodded, “you can sound like that without forcing it too high. At least now I know what Claudio sounds like.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hero and Claudio are meant to be two of a kind, as are Benedick and Beatrice. But the younger couple are supposed to be more stylized, a typical couple, you might say. So if you sound like that, he sounds like,” and ha paused, “this.” And in that one word, Sherlock went from sounding like his deep-voiced, polished, public-schoolboy self, to a shallow, square-chested idea of a handsome man.

His small pale eyes widened as he declaimed, “O, my lord,  
When you went onward on this ended action,  
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,  
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand  
Than to drive liking to the name of love:  
But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts  
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms  
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,  
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,  
Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.”

Molly’s eyes got bigger and bigger until the end, and she shook her head. “That was amazing,” she breathed, “I could almost see you wearing those Shakespearean sort of costumes, good prince.”

He scowled, the eager, wholesome expression dropped in favor of his usual. “Well, now you know what Claudio sounds like,” he glowered, back in his normal deep octave.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she begged, “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize the voice from any Disney movies.”

“Of course you don’t,” he made a face, “nobody remembers what the prince sounds like. But if we’re going with classic Disney princes, it’s always been American actors with youthful voices trying to sound like us.” He tilted his head at her. “That is, a vaguely flat ‘British’ voice with a good deal of charm.”

“Then Claudio is perfect for the typical Prince _Charm_ ing voice, isn’t he?” she smiled, and he wrinkled his nose. “Shall we continue with the original scene, Don Pedro and Hero?”

“Fine,” he grumbled, pulling out his mobile, even though they both knew he didn’t need it. “ ‘With me in your company?’ ” he said, back in the super-polite, older voice.

“ ‘I may say so, when I please,’ ” Molly pitched her voice to Minnie Mouse, rather than Sleeping Beauty, heights.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, then gave in to deep chuckles. “Stop that,” he tried to scold her, but he was still snorting, so it didn’t come off as a serious threat. “Oh God, that was horrible.”

She shrugged, smiling. “If that’s supposed to be your older brother, I’m glad I’ve never met him.”

The mention of the elder Holmes seemed to sober him up. “Likewise,” he narrowed his eyes, “ ‘And when please you to say so?’ ”

Molly sighed inwardly. Here we go. “ ‘When I like your favour; for God defend the lute  
should be like the case!’ ” she said, trying to remember how the blonde Disney character sounded like. Oh well, she was going for not-Mary blonde, that is, decidedly innocent rather than winky and knowing like a certain Mrs. Watson.

He went on in his brother’s voice, “ ‘My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.’ ”

“ ‘Why, then, your visor should be thatched,’ ” Molly nodded firmly, going at it straightforward with no hint of subtlety or mischievousness like Beatrice.

Sherlock smirked. “ ‘Speak low, if you speak love.’ ”

She shuddered and laughed, “Oh my God, that was so creepy! Does he really sound like that?”

He nodded sourly. “If he ever said the word ‘love’, I’m never around to hear it,” he said, “and I hope I never do.” Then he smiled wryly. “Even your expression changes into a more vacant one when you read Hero’s lines. That’s a bit worrisome.”

“Wicked!” Molly tossed her ponytail like a secondary schoolgirl, which made Sherlock twitch. “Sorry, I’m just really happy I’ve got another character down. I’m not sure I can sound like Mary, and who would Ursula sound like?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock answered promptly.

Molly took a moment to process that, and then she smiled. “Thank you. For trying to make this easier for me.”

He shrugged it off. “The sooner you learn, the faster we’ll get this done and Miss Smith can stop leering at you.”

Molly dimpled, “Sherlock. We’ll still be visiting her, even when she gets better.” And she allowed herself some tea, figuring he wouldn’t say anything startling to that.

He looked startled, however. “You still want to visit her?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “She’s ni — no, she’s funny, and frighteningly intelligent, and interesting. Of course I would.”

“Oh,” he said, and absentmindedly drank two cups of tea before he noticed. “Right. Back to the party.”

And they continued to go through the rest of Act 2, with Margaret (Molly doing a horrible imitation of Mary) and Balthasar (some clueless airline pilot Sherlock had flown with), then Ursula (Molly’s even worse imitation of Mrs. Hudson) and Antonio (“Does Shakespeare have a problem with single people of _any_ age?” “…Sherlock”). When they got to Beatrice versus masked Benedick at the party, Sherlock sometimes needled Molly to get her to sound sarky, and when Molly caught on, the lesson unfortunately didn’t stick. So he tried again, but the second time around, he had her play Benedick and he did Beatrice. Molly wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep or the jollity of hearing deep-voiced Sherlock play Molly play Beatrice, but she thought it was hilarious, and they stopped several times while she tried to overcome her giggles. “Ugh, you sounded much better when I tricked you,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” the long-haired brunette wiped her eyes, “but you have to admit, you make a very interesting Beatrice.”

“I’m not sure if you think Benedick’s supposed to sound grumpy, or if that’s you trying to deepen your voice,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

She pursed her lips and pulled it to the side. “Can’t you tell the difference?”

“Your acting isn’t that subtle,” he sniffed, and she rolled her eyes. “Then don’t try to deepen your voice, you sound grumpy.”

“Fine,” Molly said, with less huffiness than she thought she’d have. “It’s strangely harder to sound deeper than it is to go higher.”

“Your voice wasn’t meant to go baritone,” he quirked a smile at her, “as mine wasn’t meant to go soprano.”

“Can you go alto?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Tenor is the highest I can go, which is why me trying to imitate you isn’t a good idea in the long run,” he said. “I can imitate your speech pattern, but not your octave range, bit like running your voice through pitch adjustment on software.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I suppose you’ve done that before.”

“A few years ago,” he nodded. “Got bored after a few hours. Thought I could do the modern version of the Thatcher-Reagan recordings, and just using easily-downloadable software, I could make it sound like a couple of celebrities were gay and having it on with each other.” He paused. “Well, I was right about one of them…”

Molly rolled her eyes. “We’re not pitching anybody’s voices, tempting as it might be to see if you’d really sound like me,” she said. “Besides, it’s back to the all-male side of the party. See if you can pick apart your side of things, and I’ll try to keep up.”

He pouted, but did it in such a way that he was preening. Molly wondered, not for the first time, why he never bothered to go into acting. Perhaps it was too easy for him? She noted he did have a tendency never to go for the easy way out, even though he complained about how boring things got otherwise. So Don John sounded like a slightly-deranged man with a half-Irish, half-American accent, Borachio sounded depressingly like John Watson, Claudio continued to sound like a two-dimensional Prince Charming, and Don Pedro sounded like some kind of politician. Well, she supposed Don Pedro was some kind of politician. And, as promised, he picked apart each character’s dialogue in turn, and she giggled every so often. God, she must be tired, because she could honestly see Sherlock as every character he was speaking.

“Your turn,” Sherlock poked her in the shoulder.

“Hm? Oh,” she squinted as she looked down for a female name, then yawned. “ ‘Speak, count, 'tis your cue’,” she grinned. “Oh, what a coincidence.”

“Funny,” he rolled his eyes, and went on as Claudio,  
“ ‘Silence is the perfect herald of joy: I were  
but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as  
you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for  
you and dote upon the exchange.’ ”

“ ‘Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth  
with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.’ ” Then she sat up, almost awake enough to warrant her attention. “Wait a minute. She _wants_ her cousin to give a near-perfect stranger a kiss? What kind of idiot does that?”

He smirked at her. “Comedy, comma, romance, Molly Hooper,” he intoned, “I believe you’re familiar with the genre.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Hush, you,” she grumbled.

“Or what, you’ll stop my mouth with a kiss?” he joked.

And then he stopped. And they stared at each other.

“Oh,” she breathed, after feeling like she’d lost the ability to do so for a bit. “That’s what she meant.” She glanced at his lips, but she attributed it to her lack of focus and sleep.

“Obviously,” Sherlock retorted, but it lacked its usual edge. His eyes seemed to flicker over her as well, but he gave no comment on either of them blushing. Then he cleared his throat and went on, and so did she.

In a way, Molly’s tiredness suited the talk between Don Pedro and Beatrice, because she wanted to cut it short and go to sleep, but was too polite to, and he doggedly went on, taking up the conversation between the three men once Molly finished her lines as Beatrice.

Eventually, Molly was nodding off in spite of the tea and company, and she had the oddest dream of Sherlock as a politician, Sherlock as her bearded uncle, Sherlock as a Disney prince, and even Sherlock as a Disney princess, plotting to get her to fall in love before she completely passed out in her chair.


	32. Chapter 32

Wednesday morning, Molly woke up to find herself in her bedroom, tucked in. She frowned. She didn’t remember going to bed, honestly, and when she got out, she found she was still wearing the same clothes she had on the day before. She yawned, stretched, and then texted Sherlock, “Thanks for putting me to bed. Again. Sorry for passing out on you.”

“I thought you probably didn’t want your customers to hear you snoring from the street, so I put you upstairs,” he texted back.

She made a face. Lovely. Then she made tea, drank a cup, and re-read her messages. “Thank you for risking your hearing,” she texted back, and grinned.

“Will be out on a delivery,” he texted back, “let Lestrade know I’m not deliberately ignoring his texts.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure you aren’t,” she muttered, but dutifully called the DI to let him know.

Molly spent the rest of the day dealing with nervous first-timers, unconscious multiple-timers (those were a bit better, all she had to do was wake them up when she was done), and a handful of secondary school girls who thought that she did piercings and would do them for twice the price of a tattoo. She wasn’t sure how many times she had to tell them she didn’t do piercings at all, but she was relieved when it finally sank in and they left. She knew there were some tattoo parlors that did, and others that did when the price was right, but she was neither.

To calm her nerves, she started sketching out Geiger-style aliens popping out of those girls’ throats, then the aliens became full-sized and started devouring their hosts. She was well on her way to littering the paper with the remains of teenaged girls when Sherlock came in. He took in the cartoons on the butcher paper, then grinned. “Good job for Lestrade that you can’t actually make this happen,” he said in a slightly rough voice, “you do have a terrifying eye for detail.”

She grinned. “Some people aren’t in the habit of tossing tossers into the bins,” she said, “this is my therapy.”

“You should probably shred or burn your therapy when you’re done,” he waved at her drawings, “I recognize a couple of the girls as being progeny of locals.”

“Bugger,” Molly sighed, then started tearing them up. “Thanks for the warning. Wouldn’t do to accidentally offend a cousin or two.” Then she frowned. “Are you feeling all right? You sound a bit hoarse.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then cleared his throat. “I may have been yelling at a customer,” he muttered.

Molly sighed. “Let me get some honey for your tea. Did they deserve it, or were you just impatient?” She ignored the false shocked look, then rolled her eyes when he made a face. “Never mind.” And she went into the kitchen, made some chamomile tea, and added lots of honey to his cup and just a cube of sugar to hers. “Here,” she said, “try not to talk, and relax.”

“What do you mean, try--” and he glared when she covered his mouth with her hand.

“Drink your tea, please,” Molly said, and took her hand off.

He huffed, but did as she said. And they spent the next few minutes simply drinking tea. Then he pulled out his mobile. “Better?” he texted her.

She smirked after she checked hers. “Much.” He tapped his phone, and she rolled her eyes. Then she typed, “Sounds like you had quite an exciting day.”

“Not really,” he typed back. “Mrs. Hudson wanted me to run extra errands since I was going the next town over. That meant I had to talk to more people. Ridiculous.”

She snorted softly, then her thumbs hit her mobile’s keyboard again. “You never did say why you were yelling at a customer,” she reminded him.

He grimaced. “They asked for it,” he texted back.

“Of course they did,” Molly fought another eyeroll successfully, mostly because it was really hard to touch-type on a haptic screen. And then a thought occurred to her. “You know, Shakespeare could have just written that Hero could just cover Claudio’s mouth with her hand like I just did.”

“Wouldn’t have the same impact, and you know it,” Sherlock smirked as he typed. “Besides, he could just as well make that romantic, too.”

Molly looked at him in disbelief. “How can you make half-smothering a person romantic?” she blurted out.

He tapped his mobile, and she sighed as he fired away. “There are those in a certain community,” Sherlock started off pedantically, then grinned when she gave in and rolled her eyes, “but not Shakespeare. He would have had Claudio cover Hero’s hand in both of his, giving her hand a kiss. And Hero would look away, giving her innocent nature a bit of cover, but she’d still let him kiss her hand rather than pull away. A quick bit of business, but that could demonstrate the nature of their relationship, such as it is, just as easily as a mouth-to-mouth kiss. Or he could pull her hand off a bit and kiss her hand in a courtly gesture, that would make more sense, and preserve her honor, I think that would be a more period-appropriate stage direction.” And then he stretched his fingers out after that typing up that paragraph.

Molly knew she needed more caffeine, because she could easily picture herself and Sherlock in both scenarios, and wasn’t that ridiculous when he was just talking about fictional characters? “Oh, all right,” she blushed, and got mad at herself for even blushing without reason. Thankfully, she got madder at him for waving his phone at her. Twat. “I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?” she typed politely.

He nodded. “Black, two sugars,” he texted, and was relieved when all she did was nod and go back to the kitchen. He knew why she blushed, and he was both proud of making her do so, and regretful he didn’t do the same when she’d originally covered his mouth with her hand. Odd. So he made himself another cup of chamomile tea, liberally adding as much honey as he could to the proceedings, and hoped that would be enough to coat his throat. He probably shouldn’t have insulted the man who was trying to help him, come to think of it, but the vocal exercises seemed extremely debatable. Since his throat was taking its time to recover, however, it seemed the other man had a point. Sherlock sighed and finished off the chamomile tea.

“So, what brings you over?” Molly asked, a bit nervously when she returned with two coffee mugs.

“We didn’t finish rehearsing,” he answered, somewhat relieved that his voice was sounding more normal thanks to the enforced silence and honey-laced chamomile tea, then took a sip of coffee. It was surprisingly strong, and he would have to make a note to ask for three sugars next time. “Although I think the next bit is just me, unfortunately.”

“Oh God,” Molly groaned when the realization hit her, “then that means the part after that is just me. Ugh.”

“Well, you get to laugh at me first,” Sherlock tried to reassure her, “pretending to trick myself into falling for you.” He paused when her eyes widened. “That didn’t come out right.”

“Oh, no, I understand,” she laughed nervously. “I mean, I’ll have to do the same thing in the next act. It’s going to be a bit confusing. I mean, trying to sound like Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and then Hero and Beatrice.”

Sherlock noted the discrepancy of names, but didn’t press it. She was too nervous for his liking, but he didn’t know how to calm her down. “Fine, then I’ll start, and I’ll help you when it comes to your turn,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” she nodded. And then she laughed herself silly when he practically threw himself into contortions being five men, three of whom were attempting to convince Benedick that Beatrice was madly in love with him but pretending not to be for the sake of her pride. She noted that he didn’t bother trying to sing Balthasar’s song, but then, she hadn’t expected him to.

She was wiping her eyes when he gave her a look. “Open your book,” he said, “Beatrice is coming up.”

“Bugger,” she sighed, then wrinkled her nose at his fake surprise. “Shut up.”

“Go on, my Lady Disdain,” he waved a hand at her.

She narrowed her eyes, then flipped through the playbook. “ ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ ” she read in a grudging tone.

He smirked. “ ‘Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.’ ”

With a look that said “You ought to, you massive pain in the arse”, Molly read,  
“ ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you take  
pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would  
not have come.’ ”

He grinned foolishly enough that she wanted to smack him. “ ‘You take pleasure then in the message?’ ”

She rolled her eyes, thankful that he was being silly again and not serious. “ ‘Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s  
point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach,  
signior: fare you well.’ ”

And then he went on to declaim, using Benedick’s warped logic, that Beatrice obviously loved him in that small summons. Sherlock grinned at her. “Your turn.”

Molly groaned, but he was nice enough to help her out by doing Margaret’s and Ursula’s voices. She wasn’t surprised that he did much better with them than with Beatrice’s, but it did make the whole thing hilarious all over again. “Never, ever let Mrs. Hudson hear you do that,” she giggled at one point, “she would starve you, even if you think you don’t need to eat all that much.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “She wouldn’t dare.”

She raised both of hers right back. “She’s patient, but who knows how long she’ll go before she snaps and deprives you of tea as well as scones?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was right. And, much as he’d like to pretend he didn’t like her tea, he absolutely needed it and was far too lazy to make his own. Besides, her scones were much better, and he’d be a fool to deprive himself of those. “Fine,” he huffed, “no making fun of Mrs. Hudson when she’s around to listen.”

“Sherlock!” Molly scolded.

“I’m the landlady, not my renter,” he retorted in his landlady’s cadence, then dodged her half-hearted swat. Then he grinned at her, which deepened when she grudgingly grinned back. Ha! “ ‘I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,  
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,  
For shape, for bearing, argument and valour,  
Goes foremost in report through Italy.’ ”

Molly snorted, but forced herself to continue as Hero, “ ‘Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.’ ”

He waggled his eyebrows. “ ‘His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.  
When are you married, madam?’ ”

“They’re not talking about you,” Molly rolled her eyes, then huffed when he looked at her expectantly to continue, so she did. It was so hard trying to sound like Hero when she wanted to be sarcastic and sound like Beatrice, especially when she wanted to hit him over the head with a cushion. And he grinned evilly when she had to pretend to be Beatrice and do the same silly declaiming over Benedick as he did for Beatrice earlier. “Jerk,” she muttered when she finished. “That was so hard!”

“But you did it,” his grin slid into a more pleased shape. “I knew you could.”

Molly huffed. “Only because I don’t want to sound like a complete idiot when we do the whole thing.”

“Well, you’ll have to work on your Ursula and Margaret voices,” he nodded, “and polish up Hero.” He leaned forward. “Watch some old Disney cartoons. Listen to how the princesses talk. Get a better idea of how you want Hero to sound. I’m going to bother Miss Smith now.”

And he swirled out, and she wasn’t sure when he’d finished his coffee. She made a face. “I think there was a compliment earlier,” she mused, loading the empty cups on the tea tray, “I’m so not in the mood for a Disney marathon.”

She washed the dishes, cleaned her tattoo parlor, and closed it for the night. Then she cleared off the sofa, turned on her laptop and settled in to watch “Sleeping Beauty”.

And fell asleep before Briar Rose met the prince.


	33. Chapter 33

The next night, Molly and Sherlock made their visit to Miss Smith’s, whereupon she noted that one had a stiff neck, and the other a sore throat. “Usually, with a heterosexual couple, it’s the other way around,” the old woman grinned evilly.

“Why would you say that?” Sherlock frowned, honestly confused.

Molly blinked, then blushed. “Oh my God,” she groaned, covering her red face with her hands.

“What, what did she mean?” Sherlock asked. “How is it sexy?”

Miss Smith decided, in one of her rare moments of mercy, to spare the younger woman the explanation, and beckoned the young man over. After whispering the explanation in his ear, she was pleased to see a blush on his face as well. Such a sweet young thing, she thought, pity he wasn’t the right gender. “Although I’m sure I can give you some tips on how to please your woman,” she winked at him.

But this time, he bristled. “She’s her own woman,” he said, “please do not expose yourself as a hypocrite, Miss Smith.”

The former headmistress sighed. Well, it was lovely while it lasted, she thought, although she was pleased to see that Molly was still blushing fiercely. Good. “How far are you two along?” she asked. “In the play,” she added, with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We’re up to Act 3, Scene 2,” he answered, “when the play starts to spin from comedy to tragedy.”

Miss Smith rolled her eyes at the declaration. “Right, get your reader and book out then,” she said, “Sherlock, have a cup of tea before you start, I don’t want you exacerbating your symptoms.”

He nodded. “I’m not sick, just yelling,” he said, but dutifully drank his cup. And then he started off, with Claudio, Don Pedro, and Leonato teasing Benedick about his “toothache” versus his newfound-love. And then wheeled off, as promised, into tragedy when the wily Don John told his half-brother and Claudio about Hero’s supposed unfaithfulness. Scene 3 spun back into comic territory with Dogberry and Verges, pretending to speak and behave as gentlemen without the slightest idea that what they were saying made no sense. But that scene, too, devolved into tragedy when Borachio revealed to Conrade his part in Don John’s plans to trick Claudio into thinking his fiancée was unfaithful when it was really Margaret in unwitting disguise.

Miss Smith, to spare Sherlock’s throat, no matter what the cause was, asked Molly to read the parts of Don Pedro, Verges, the two watchmen, and Conrade. The younger woman made a face, but did so, even as Sherlock still managed to shoulder the brunt of the voice work. He took as many pauses and sips of tea as he remembered, but he often forgot while getting caught up in one instance or another, and Molly ended up putting the teacup in front of his face more than once while she read her lines.

“I don’t think we should go on to Scene 4,” Miss Smith said.

“Why not, it’s mostly Molly’s turn,” Sherlock argued.

“Because you’ll end up reading or commenting anyways, and you’ve forced your throat to overwork itself already,” the elderly woman glared at him.

“But--”

“Sherlock Holmes, if you say one more word, you will have to kiss her!” Miss Smith glared.

And to Molly’s surprise, Sherlock shut up. She was a bit disappointed at that, but squashed down that silly feeling. After all, it wasn’t very nice having to be kissed as a punishment. “Very well,” the tattoo artist said, “we’d better get going. Thank you for having us over, Miss Smith.”

As the younger woman hugged her, Miss Smith answered, “Thank you for coming, dear.” Then she looked over at Sherlock. “Well?”

He made a face, but dutifully walked over and hugged the elder woman. And then he made a V-sign with his two fingers, first pointing at his own eyes, then at Miss Smith’s. And she laughed, which made him glare and repeat the gesture.

Molly shook her head, collecting the tea tray and washed it downstairs. Then she called out, “Good night, Miss Smith!”

Sherlock, for his part, pouted a good deal, even when they drove off.

They continued the drive in silence for at least a mile, and then she asked, “Did that ever happen to you as a child? Getting kissed as punishment?” She added quickly, “Don’t worry, you can talk, I’m not going to enforce her punishment.”

He snorted. “Having to hug and kiss older relatives when I was a child was punishment enough,” he answered. “Did you?”

She shook her head. “The only people who kissed me as a child were my parents. I think in primary school, when boys and girls were being horrible to each other because we didn’t know how to be sweet to each other, the teachers would make us hold hands.” She grinned. “I’m fairly sure I kicked a boy when he yanked my braid.”

But he didn’t look as lighthearted as she felt when she reminisced. “Molly?”

“Yes?”

“Are we ‘sweet on each other’, to borrow your phrasing?”

She blinked. “Why are you,” then paused. “Oh.” And then fell into serious thought as he did earlier. “Well, I like you a lot,” she said slowly.

“As friends, or as something else?” he snapped.

She frowned, annoyed that he was suddenly irritable. And then she saw why, because he thought it was better to be angry than afraid. Oh dear. “Do you like me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he gritted out. “You are a disgustingly likeable person.”

Strangely enough, the fondness in her heart grew. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“What?” he said, startled.

“Thank you,” she repeated, her cheeks heating up.

He smiled a little. “You do know that wasn’t sweet or romantic.”

“But it was honest,” she said.

He huffed. “I’m always honest.”

“Nobody’s honest when it comes to their feelings,” she said. “Even me.”

“You are,” he argued.

She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I thought I would be safe when I picked the one man everyone thought was unlikeable and decided to be his friend. That makes me a horrible person, using you like that.”

“I was the one using you,” he argued, “to act like my friend when nobody else would. Others would act like my parents, but never my friends.”

“Sherlock,” Molly said sadly, “you have more friends than anyone realizes. All I had was my uncle, really. You have Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Miss Smith, and now John and Mary. So really, I’m the horrible person.”

“Then I like horrible people,” he said stubbornly, coming to a stop at her place. “And you will always be safe with me, Molly Hooper.”

She stared at him. How could he say something like that to her? “Don’t say that to me,” she said harshly, and got out of the car as quickly as she could.

“Molly, wait!” he said, jumping out of the car and ran after her. He caught her before she unlocked her door. “I’m not Tom,” he said.

Her mouth twitched into a gruesome smile before quickly regaining its frown. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you treating me like I will be?” he asked.

She looked at him with something worse than sadness, it was defeat. “I don’t think we should be friends any more,” she said quietly, and locked her door behind her while he was processing that request.


	34. Chapter 34

The next morning, Sherlock was woken up by a loud banging, and then his door was kicked open. “Mr. Hooper!” he glared angrily at the large bearded man, as well as his landlady wringing her hands behind him, and sat up in bed. “Why--?”

But Robbie Hooper cut him off. “Shut up and get Molly,” the huge mechanic growled at him. “She didn’t wanna listen to me, but she needs you to go after her.”

Sherlock jumped out of bed and pulled off his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and started buttoning up another standard tight long-sleeved shirt, ignoring the fact that there were two others standing in the open doorway. “She left? Why?”

Robbie Hooper turned his head. “She’s in love with you, you idjit, and apparently, because that goosefucker, pardon me, Mrs. Hudson, giant arse of an ex-boyfriend messed with her head, she thinks she can’t be happy or safe when she’s in love. So. Get her back. Prove her wrong.” Then he gritted out the last word, holding his fears in his suddenly-clenched fists, “Please.”

“Destination?” Sherlock asked in a clipped voice.

“Scotland,” the bearded man answered. “Rutherglen, to be exact.”

Sherlock stopped pulling up his trousers and stared at the fidgeting giant in his doorway. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

Hooper shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

“Oh God, why am I surrounded by _idiots_?” Sherlock declared to the ceiling. Then he dropped his gaze back to the giant and the old woman. “You, of all people, could have stopped her. You know her background. You are her _family_. You _swore_ to protect her.” He strode up to the taller man without fear. “Why didn’t you go with her?”

Ashamed rather than angry, the mechanic answered, “She didn’ want me to. Said it would be too, I dunno, obvious or somethin’. An’ she told me to look after Annie.”

“Clever of her,” Sherlock said sourly. “Well, bright man, you are going to call her. And so are you,” he pointed at his landlady, who looked surprised, “and I’ll get Lestrade and the others.”

“What about you?” Robbie Hooper asked.

“She’s afraid of me, it’s obvious she doesn’t trust me, and if I attempt to go after her like you wanted me to, she’ll think I’m behaving precisely like her psychotic ex-boyfriend, think it through,” the florist snapped. “Nothing at all romantic about hunting down a woman on the run when she fears for her life, is it?”

“Oh. Hadn’t thought of it that way,” the larger man mumbled.

“Exactly,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well? Go on, call her,” and he ran out the room and down the street before the mechanic got done punching in the first four numbers.

“Do you think he’s right?” Mrs. Hudson asked, worried.

The large man sighed. “Yeah. But Molly was so scared, and she made so much sense…”

“It’s all right, dear,” the landlady patted his arm, “now call up that niece of yours and get her to see some sense! It’s absolutely ridiculous, running away from what could make her happy!” And she went downstairs to make some tea, because she hadn’t had time for that earlier, in the madness of it all.

Eleven minutes later, Greg Lestrade was woken up by an irate florist. “Thought you’d been done with this sort of act,” the DI mumbled as he answered the door, not having changed out of his clothes from the night before.

Sherlock merely pushed him into the kitchen. “Where’s your coffee?” he asked. “I know you have that despicable instant type. You need it now because Molly Hooper’s run off.”

The silver-haired man paused, cupboard door handle in his hand. “What? Why? What happened? What did you do to her?” Greg wished he were more awake.

Sherlock wished the DI were more awake, too. He grabbed the coffee tin from the open cupboard and started preparing the coffee. “Molly Hooper ran off because she loves me, but she also believes I’ll behave like her previous boyfriend and try to kill her. I thought she simply wanted to end our friendship last night, but according to her uncle, she’s run off to Scotland where her mother is.” While Lestrade was busy goggling and processing the information, Sherlock sighed. “It’s barely done, but you need this,” he said, and passed the barely-hot cup of coffee over.

“Thanks,” Lestrade said in a gravelly voice, took a gulp, then coughed. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!” he sputtered.

But the florist was unapologetic. “You need to wake up,” he said, “if slapping you in the face would work, I would do that. But she needs you. You need to call Molly Hooper and let her know she has friends here. Real friends, who will take care of her, who miss her, and want her back.”

The older man made a face after another sip of toe-curling caffeine. “And you?”

“Getting in touch with Miss Smith and the Watsons,” Sherlock said grimly. “Before you ask, no, I won’t get in touch with her. Not until she’s talked to everyone else. I should have known this would happen, but I foolishly thought she’d just sever our friendship, not run off like the devil was after her!” He scowled and stalked off, slamming the door behind him.

“P’raps I should see if the bet’s still on,” Greg hit the doctor’s number on speed dial.

And while he was making his call, Sherlock headed to the large house with a larger garden. It wasn’t long before he practically ran over the day nurse (different woman, actually competent, too fond of tea and crap telly) in his haste to get to the elderly woman. “Miss Smith!” he called out. “Wake up, you old hag!”

“I’m sorry, I tried to stop him,” the nurse caught up with them in the elderly woman’s bedroom.

“It’s all right,” Miss Smith held up her hand with a frown. “What happened? Where’s Molly?”

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said, “run off to Scotland.”

The white-haired woman really looked at him now, and her frame shrunk a few inches. “Oh,” she sighed, “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t need your apology,” he said, but it was without its usual heat, “I need you to call her. She needs to know she has friends here who want her back.”

“And you can’t, because she’s afraid of loving you,” Miss Smith said softly. He nodded. “Very well. But first, come here,” she waved him over.

He leaned over her. “Yes?”

“Hug me,” she ordered, and he did so, but this time, he was the one clinging to her like she was a lifeline, and the old woman held on as tight as she could, before she had to let go. “Thank you for being brave.”

His face was troubled, but he nodded. “Call her,” he repeated, and left.

Miss Genevieve Smith closed her eyes. She thought the young woman had more sense and courage, but apparently not. The childishness was genuine from Sherlock, but it was a protective act for Miss Hooper, and once she saw as an adult and put the childish things behind, she got scared. “Be brave, dear girl,” she whispered, and fell asleep.

“Just heard from Greg,” John answered when Sherlock called. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, call her,” Sherlock snapped.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Mary Watson said, because apparently they were on speakerphone. “I’m going after her.”

“What?” John and Sherlock said.

“What’s her destination, give me the time she left, and I’ll find her,” she said briskly. “Love, look after Bea for a bit, would you?”

“Sure,” John said, his head awhirl. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Better than Sherlock doing it,” she said, and Sherlock mumbled his agreement. “Besides, I’ll actually find her, and do it without alerting anyone who might be after her or me. Don’t worry, love, it’s a short jaunt for a good cause. Oh, this will be fun!” She ran into the bedroom, made a lot of noise in the bedroom in her haste, and came out with a large purse. She kissed her husband on the cheek, then her daughter on the head, and grabbed her coat along the way. “I left the Sig Sauer in the kitchen, behave, darlings!”

“I’m guessing she’s got another gun with her, then,” Sherlock smirked.

“Shut up,” John grumbled. “This is all your fault, getting my wife back into business.”

“She’s not going to kill anyone, she’s just getting Molly back,” Sherlock blinked. “Isn’t that similar to being a nurse and caring for people?”

John sighed gustily. “You have an interesting definition of what constitutes medical care,” he said. “I’m calling in late, but you’d better bloody handle things when Molly gets back.”

“I will,” Sherlock said, somewhat relieved that John said ‘when’ rather than ‘if’, even if the other probably wasn’t thinking about it. It also said much in the doctor’s faith in his wife’s abilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about leaving it like that! The weekend will be filled by volunteering at Comic Con Honolulu, so please be patient, my brain cells will need to regroup after!


	35. Chapter 35

“How did you find me?” Molly Hooper asked, when Mary sat next to her on the train that was closer to Scotland than it was to the small town from which they’d both come.

Mary shook her head. The woman she was sitting next to had cut her hair and dyed it red, wearing a dark green pea coat, purple tights, black boots, and carrying a knapsack. She herself was dressed in a frumpy gray wig, a shapeless blue coat, and carrying a large purse. The current nurse knew that she was only a few years older than the runaway, but she felt every bit as old as her disguise, and knew that Molly was reacting every bit as young as her disguise. God, she hoped what she’d rehearsed along the way would have some traction with the girl. The disguised blonde woman sighed. “Trade secrets,” she muttered, and while the other woman looked disappointed, she was also accepting of that answer. Good. Maybe she’ll accept a few more sentences coming her way. “Did you hear everyone’s messages?”

Molly nodded, then looked away. She didn’t tell her how hard it was not to go back after hearing from her uncle, who’d called more than once, and the calls from the others, even Greg’s, had started to chip away at her resolve. “They weren’t supposed to know.”

Mary rolled her big blue eyes. “They’re your friends, or at least, I thought they were. Shows how much you trust them, hm.”

The shorter woman turned and glared. “How dare you,” she hissed. “They’re not my friends, they’re _his_ friends!”

Mary didn’t look impressed by the display. “Even your uncle?”

Molly’s lips trembled. “He’s under the impression that we’d be good together,” she mumbled.

“ _Everyone’s_ under that impression,” Mary corrected her. “Why aren’t you?” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh. That’s what they were like about your ex, too. The one you’re hiding from.” When Molly made to run, Mary clamped a strong hand on the younger woman’s wrist. “Oh, please. It’s a bloody open secret, it is. Just like it’s an open secret that the lad back home’s a sweet child with bad manners.” She rolled her eyes again, but only released Molly’s wrist after the other woman huffed rather than struggled, but kept a careful watch. Then she looked serious. “ _Has_ he given you any reason to fear? Has he threatened you, or hurt you, or any woman you know? If he has, I will hunt him down to the ground and bury him.”

Molly looked afraid at the steel in the other woman’s voice, knowing Mary was capable of that, but shook her head slowly. In a strange way, it was very reassuring to know that this frightening woman was on her side. “No,” she said in a small voice. “He’s rude, but he’s like that to everyone.” She frowned. “No, he’s oddly,” she paused, “gentlemanly.” She wrinkled her nose, and Mary wanted to do the same, but kept watching and listening. “He made me help him weed the garden, which made me sore for days, but he paid for my dinner and massaged me afterwards,” she mumbled, “he insults Miss Smith, but she insults him right back, and he takes care of her, more than her real nephew, and he accidentally wrecks his flat and keeps Mrs. Hudson up, but he apologizes and cleans up afterwards.”

“There, you see,” Mary sighed, relieved that her own instincts were still sound, and patted Molly’s hand, “he’s thoughtless, but he’s got a good heart. And with more people around to make sure he’s less thoughtless, like you, he’s doing better.” She thought of the dinner interrogation, then made a face. “Well, a bit better. I have no doubt that if he thought John or I were a threat to you, he would somehow manage to take us both out without hurting you or our child.” She quirked up a gentle smile. “That’s rare, you know.”

“So you’re not going to scold me,” Molly said quietly. She’d already been scolded by her mother, even though her mum promised to welcome her with open arms anyway.

Mary’s smile turned knowing. “Oh, I think you’ve gotten that and will get more, besides,” she said. “And if you knew you were in the right, you wouldn’t be looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone relieved to be found by someone from home, even someone like me,” Mary shrugged. She paused the topic when the next stop was called. “Shall we head back, or shall I woo you in place of your swain like a certain count in your play?”

Molly made a face. “Sure, let’s head back,” she said.

Mary kept an eye on the younger woman nonetheless, still not sure if the younger woman would bolt. She was relieved when she saw there was a train headed the back to where they came from still paused at the station, and grabbed Molly’s hand. Together, they ran across and hopped into the train heading homewards, and laughed. When they settled down and found seats, the disguised nurse turned to the disguised tattoo artist. “You were surprised I wasn’t him, though, weren’t you?”

Molly blinked her large brown eyes, then nodded. “Yeah. Did you talk him out of it?”

Mary shook her head. “He was too busy ordering us about, and scolding people if they asked him to go fetch you. He was under the impression you would think him a stalker or worse if he tried.” She didn’t raise an eyebrow, but it was a close thing.

“Oh, well, yes,” Molly blushed, to her irritation. “Um, thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” Mary said drily.

They shared awkward smiles, and were quiet for the next few stops. Then something occurred to Mary. “One last thing,” she said, “and I’ll stop prattling on.”

Molly blinked. “Okay.”

“Something from C.S. Lewis, I believe. He said, ‘There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.’ ” Mary tilted her head when she finished the quote, her eyes keen. “I tried to keep my heart safe, much as you did. But it changed, much like that quote said, and it became almost irredeemable,” she said. “When I met John, I’d almost forgotten what having a heart, loving was like. If my heart had stayed in that casket, that coffin, I never would have had him, or our child. How much more do you think you’d miss?” She turned away when she saw that her message was received by the younger woman, now in thought.

And for the rest of the train, bus, and car ride, Mary kept her promise and stopped talking. It was only until they reached the edge of the main street in her car that she murmured, her blue eyes keen despite the late hour, “Your uncle will be waiting for you.”

The younger woman looked pale under the sparse streetlights, but nodded. “Thank you,” Molly said.

And when the car pulled up in front of the still-lit mechanic’s garage, Molly hugged Mary fiercely. “Thank you,” she said again, and ran out to hug her weary uncle, who looked like he’d been standing in the doorway since she’d gone. And he hugged her back and cried when his niece was safely in his arms, even as he kissed her suddenly flame-colored hair. Molly ended up soaking her uncle’s shirt with her own tears, even while repeatedly apologizing.

The woman known as Mary Watson looked soberly at the small family, then drove quietly away. She knew when she got home, she would hug her husband and daughter to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! The con was lovely, although I think next time, I'll just be a regular con-goer & not a volunteer. God bless con crews, it is friggen nuts behind the scenes, especially for those like me who only had a teensy glimpse of the bigger picture! :D


	36. Chapter 36

Molly knocked on the door across the street early the next morning. It was a bit embarrassing, but then again, running off like a child, only to be caught like one, was a bit embarrassing, too. But she was an adult, so she’ll deal with the consequences like one. She’d been sorely tempted to dull the pain like an adult, too, but talked herself out of a strong whiskey by telling herself that she deserved any pain that came her way, especially since she inflicted it in the first place. After all, she didn’t want to be a Bertram, even if she was a girl. Woman. Argh. This was hard. She sweated under her jumper, in spite of the chill morning air, and knocked again. “Sherlock? Are you home?” she called out.

The door opened, but it was the landlady who stood on the other side, her face surprised and sad, and Molly wasn’t sure of her reception by the older woman at all. “Oh, Molly,” Mrs. Hudson’s face crumpled as she spoke reproachfully, and Molly took a step back. But the older woman opened her arms as she stepped forward and hugged the younger woman, pulling her inside as she did so.

Molly made a small squeaking noise, but allowed the hug. She was a bit surprised about it, to be honest, she thought Sherlock’s landlady would scold her to pieces rather than sobbing a bit. “I’m sorry,” she said, briefly hugging Mrs. Hudson back.

When the landlady let go, she was startled. “When did your hair go all ginger?” she asked, finally noticing it under the lights.

“Oh, I, uh, dyed it,” Molly patted the end of her shorter hair nervously.

Mrs. Hudson clucked, “I’m surprised you didn’t turn it blue or green like other tattoo types. Oh, Sherlock’s out in the back, in the greenhouse. Did he text you?”

Molly shook her head. “N-no, I thought I’d just show up and, um, apologize. Before anyone else got up. Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Don’t worry about me,” the elder woman patted the younger one on the arm. “It shouldn’t be that bad.” She paused. “I think.”

And with that reassuring thought, Molly went to the greenhouse through the back door. “Sherlock?” she called out.

“In here,” his voice answered, distracted.

She felt a bit relieved that he wasn’t completely angry with her, at least, not yet. She walked in and saw him bent over, emptying the contents of the pipettes in gloved hands into a couple of flasks of boiling water. He waited a few moments, and one of them turned a slightly greenish yellow while the other became a pale, dirty yellow. He made a few notes in his notebook, waved his hand over the mouth of the flasks to waft over the scents to his nose, and made a few more notes. Then he simply stuck his nose over the first flask, took a deep breath, exhaled, made a face, scribbled, and did the same to the second flask.

Then Molly strode over and pulled Sherlock away from the flasks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she barked. “Even if they were non-toxic, you shouldn’t be inhaling them so deeply!”

He blinked, then grinned. “Would you like some tea?” he waved at the yellowish contents of the second flask.

She stared at him, then at the flask, then back at him. “No, thank you,” she said, mildly perturbed, to which he merely shrugged.

“Chamomile, thought I’d grind it up from the source rather than the tea bag,” he said. “The other’s got mint and green tea with chamomile, they’re also supposed to have beneficial qualities for one’s health.” Without another word, he picked up the flask with the greenish contents and tipped it down his throat.

“Sherlock!” Molly’s hands reached out too late.

He swallowed, then frowned. “It’s just tea,” he said, “smell.”

He tipped the mouth to her, and she could smell the strong scent of mint, as well as green tea. The chamomile scent was buried beneath the other two, and she asked, “Can you even taste the chamomile?”

“Not really,” he said, “it’s more of an aftertaste. How are you?”

“I,” she started, then sighed. It was all going wrong. No, just very, very different from how she’d thought it would. It always seemed that way with Sherlock. “Uncle’s torn between being terribly embarrassed and terribly impatient with me,” she said, “I don’t blame him. And Mrs. Hudson hugged me and cried on me, when I thought she’d be yelling at me, to be honest. I’m, I’m just very confused.”

“About what, exactly?”

The newly-dyed ginger sat on a chair and pulled her thin legs up, much as she’d seen Sherlock do many times before. It was like hugging herself, she thought, perhaps that’s why he liked sitting like this. “I came here to apologize,” she said. “I’m sorry for putting you through all that, Sherlock. And thank you for going through the trouble.”

He gave her a long, sober look. “You make it sound like it was a hardship, Molly Hooper.”

“I think,” she said slowly, “I think if someone I liked decided to run off rather than face their fears, I’d be more than a bit insulted. And wonder if they actually liked me back, if that was their reaction.”

He exhaled loudly. “Considering your circumstances, I should have forseen the actions you took, rather than your uncle having to do it for me by breaking down my door. Well, Mrs. Hudson’s door. Good job your uncle’s a fair carpenter as well as mechanic, or she’d not have stood for it long.”

And Molly lost her train of thought again. “Yeah, he is,” she agreed. Then frowned. “I, um, could you ever forgive me? For running off? For not trusting you?”

Instead of answering immediately, the tall man added a liberal dose of honey to the still-full flask, then downed the contents as if it were alcohol. Then he cleared his throat. “To be honest, I _was_ insulted. You bared what was left of your privacy, and I thought you had become stronger as a result. But the fact that you panicked with a mere reminder of your ex-paramour should have tipped me off that with stronger emotions and reminders, you’d have a stronger reaction. Instead, I naively chose to believe you were, as they say, ‘over him’. Healed, even. But your weakness got the upper hand yesterday, and for a short time, I was tempted to do the same.” Molly’s eyes widened at the realization. “I ended up buying two packs of cigarettes and smoked them through while waiting. It was,” he wrinkled his nose, “disappointing. The nicotine created a physical rush, but it didn’t solve our problem.”

“You smoked two _entire_ packs of cigarettes?” Molly goggled.

“That’s your takeaway?” he stared at her incredulously.

She dropped her head on her knees. “I’m so bad at this, Sherlock. I told you my exes got worse and worse, and then there was Tom. Who’s to say I wouldn’t mess you up with my mess?”

“At least you have experience with relationships, terrible as they were,” he retorted, “you’re the first and probably only person I’d bother trying with. Who’s to say I wouldn’t drive you insane with me being me?”

She opened her mouth, then smiled a shaky smile. “You want to bother trying with me?” she asked.

He nodded. “Are you still afraid of me?”

“Not right now,” she answered honestly. And then she decided to be selfish again. “Sherlock? Could you hug me, please?”

He walked over and wrapped his long arms around her, encircling her entirely. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you had a right bastard of an ex-lover. I’m sorry that you would distrust those who love you. I’m sorry that you believed you would be better off living with a mother you have a rocky relationship with rather than confronting me.” He felt, rather than saw, her stifled sobs, and held on. “And thank you for coming back.”

She looked up, her eyes shining with tears. “You love me?” she asked in a small voice.

He looked at those large brown eyes, so sad, so hopeful, but still easily distrustful. He knew he had to be wise in his words, to speak the truth, even if he might lose her forever. “I think so,” he answered. “As I’ve said, I’ve never been in love before, or in lust, or like, or whatever the label is. But when your uncle said you’d gone, something in my chest shattered. Is that love? I don’t know. It’s nothing like the common definition of love, not even the Benedick and Beatrice version. If it would make you feel better, feel safer, I would have us return to being acquaintances, if you wish.” His arms were still holding her, and he was surprised she hadn’t shaken him off yet or scolded him off, so he kept holding her and talking. “Know this, Molly Hooper: if I ever hurt you in any way, I will willingly go to your uncle, Lestrade, Mary, or anyone, and receive the proper punishment, and leave, if necessary. This is your home, not mine, and you should never feel forced to leave it.”

It shocked her, really, that he would go as far as all that, but then again, logically, this was more her home than his, and she felt more cracks develop in her wall of mistrust. And something in her chest shifted when she realized that he wanted to make her feel comfortable, make her feel safe, even at the cost of his own feelings and wants. This, from a man most people, including herself at one time, considered rude, selfish, and ignorant of others’ feelings, he was putting her feelings above his own. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but Molly untangled herself, planting her feet on the floor instead of the chair, and returned the hug. “Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “I want to be brave, I want to love you like you deserve to be loved.”

He frowned, out of her sight. “Nobody deserves to be loved,” he said. “We just are or aren’t. At least, I thought that was true of most people. But you deserve to be loved, Molly Hooper. More than anyone.” Then he pulled away slightly and placed a dry kiss on her cheek. “Know that you are loved, whether you want to be or not.”

Molly blinked, then a smile twitched on her lips briefly. “Thank you,” she sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “You are loved, too, whether you like it or not. I prefer the former, however.” And she returned his action by kissing him on his cheek.

He smiled, then frowned slightly. “Now what?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Nobody ever tells you what happens after the prince kisses the princess, what ‘happily ever after’ actually entails,” Sherlock grumbled. “Even my parents refused to tell my brother and me anything about what happened before they got married. From the wedding on, however, they went over _everything_ in excessive, excruciating detail.” And he made the face of all children, no matter how old, of even thinking about their happily married parents being horribly in love and getting rather disgusted by it.

She giggled again, and leaned against him. “Well, I know that it won’t be happily ever after all the time,” she said. “But if we’re patient, and talk instead of, oh, running away, I think we could work it out.”

“Or the next time you want to run, we can do it together,” he smirked.

“Oh. Yes,” she blushed. “Maybe later.”

His smirk widened into a grin. “Okay.” And he pulled her into another hug.

Mrs. Hudson, from her vantage point of the kitchen window, sighed. “I don’t think John’s going to count those,” she muttered, and walked over to the telephone on the wall.


	37. Chapter 37

Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson he was off to take a lunch break, which went over as well as could be expected, since he barely remembered to eat most days. She’d snorted, and wished him well on “whatever mysterious jaunt you’re off to”. Sometimes, he wished his landlady didn’t know him so well, which was why he needed a doctor, not a landlady.

“JOHN!” he bellowed when he slammed open the waiting room doors of the local hospital. “Where are you?”

“Not again,” the receptionist, who’d only seen Sherlock once before in the company of Miss Smith, remembered all too well the rude git who’d swept through the small room. She hit the intercom button, “Dr. Watson, madman in the waiting room to see you!”

The blonde doctor came out swiftly with an aggrieved expression on his face, which Sherlock thought was patently unfair. After all, weren’t doctors supposed to be helpful? “Yes, Sherlock?” he asked. “You don’t look like you’re dying.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said tersely, then dragged the shorter man to his own office. “I need your help.”

John raised his eyebrows, then closed the door behind them. It sounded like a private conversation, rather than a health consultation. “Will I have to send my wife out on another mission, then?” he sat at the chair closest to the computer, which left Sherlock either the examining table or the chair next to said table.

Sherlock chose neither, still standing as he snorted, “She went on her own recognizance, if you recall.” Then the curly-haired brunette shook his head. “I need your help,” he spit out, he did so hate to repeat himself, especially when it came to saying something like this. “With women. I need,” he gritted out, “relationship advice.”

“Oh,” John breathed, then smiled none-too-reassuringly. “You’ve come to the wrong person, mate.”

Sherlock blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “You are married, are you not, to the woman you love? Is that not the typical result of a successful romantic relationship?” He thought of Lestrade, the other person he would’ve gone to before he met the doctor, but the DI had come to the small town after a messy divorce and hadn’t bothered to start a new romance here, there’d be no helpful relationship advice from that man.

The blonde man nodded agreeably. “Yeah, but through no fault of my own. I happened to get lucky finding the one woman who’d put up with me, and loved me anyways. I love her to pieces, don’t get me wrong, even on the boring days, and in the thankfully sparse moments when she’s truly frightening, but she’s the reason we work. Before Mary, I’ve never been in a relationship longer than,” he leaned back a bit to think, then sat up straight again, “a couple of months. And that was an on-again, off-again type of deal. Not many women out there are lovely, dangerous, and willing to put up with my mess, and yet, there was Mary.” His pleasant smile returned. “I think you’re the same way with Molly. You found the one person who not only puts up with you, but loves you, and vice versa, especially after her runaway bit there.”

“About that,” Sherlock’s lips tightened. “I want to know how to prevent something like that from happening again.”

“Well, what did you say when you saw her again? I’m assuming you _did_ see her again,” John said, not knowing about what happened earlier that morning.

So Sherlock told him, paraphrasing to the point of bluntness, as usual, with some hand gestures and wild expressions thrown in for effect. “Well?” he asked when he finished.

“You set a high bar,” John folded his arms as he teased him. “Makes the rest of us look bad.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock glared at him, then sat down hard on the free chair. “Well?” he demanded again.

John held his hands up. “I honestly don’t know what to say,” he said. “I mean, for someone with no previous experience in romantic relationships, you’ve got pretty good instincts on what to do. Keep following them.” A smile flicked on, then off. “I know you’re a genius, or at least, you make sure everyone in your vicinity knows that you are, but when you don’t know something, or if something she’s said or done puzzles you, ask her. Don’t be afraid to look stupid, because, well, we all end up looking stupid to the women we love, sooner or later.” He shrugged.

“ _That’s_ your advice?” Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow at him. It seemed even less helpful than the women’s magazines Mrs. Hudson used to foist on him when he was bored at the flower shop.

John nodded, unimpressed by the display. “You asked, I’m telling. You’re in a relationship with Molly Hooper, _she’s_ the best expert on Molly Hooper. Ask _her_ what’s going on if it confuses you.” He made a complicated, exasperated expression. “Sure wish someone would’ve told me that for every bloody partner I’d had after my first girlfriend, who was as much a complete beginner as I was back then. Ask Molly, then listen, really listen, and figure out what to do from there. All you can lose is your relationship if you don’t ask.”

Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes, then huffed slowly, as if expelling smoke from his nose like a dragon. “Very well,” he said.

But John only smiled at him, amused. “If you’ve got any other questions, you’ve got my number. Or you can make an appointment and not scare the daylights out of Beverly.”

“Boring,” Sherlock pouted.

But John only continued to smile pleasantly. “While you’re here and asking questions, however, I can give you a lesson for free.”

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, a bit wary, but stepped into it anyways.

John turned on the Watson charm to eleven as he smiled. “Snogging lessons. Yours truly to you personally. Give you a bit of a leg up, so to speak, when you do the deed with your lady love. Interested?” He leaned forward, like he expected Sherlock to say yes.

Sherlock snorted again. “Give me your hands,” he said instead.

The doctor blinked, then did so. “You more the holding hand type?” he asked, half-jokingly.

Sherlock didn’t bother to roll his eyes, as he was staring hard and poking at the calluses on the other man’s hands. “You still keep in practice,” he murmured approvingly. He dropped the doctor’s hands and stood up abruptly. “Good. Come along, I need your expertise.”

“I’m guessing it’s nothing to do with kissing, is it?” John sighed as he got his coat.

“Nope,” Sherlock said, popping the “p”. “Oh, and you might want to bring along earplugs.”

John raised an eyebrow, but opened a cupboard and grabbed a pre-wrapped pair of earplugs from a cupboard. “What about you, then?”

The taller man smirked. “Got my own.”

“Where are we going?” John asked as he followed the curly-haired man out.

“Oh, just the next town over,” Sherlock answered breezily. “You should probably call your wife before she gets worried.”

John sighed again, but did so, trying to prod Sherlock for more details as he tried to explain, but there was no help from his new sort-of friend and more irritation from his wife as they drove on. “This better be worth sleeping on the couch,” the blonde man grumbled.

“You’re having more sex than the average newly-married man,” Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t be too worried.”

John only shook his head. Oh well, it was a terribly slow day at the hospital, and Dr. Trevelyan could handle the rest well enough, she usually did.


	38. Chapter 38

By lunch time, Molly called Mary, since she was the only woman she knew who had a fairly healthy relationship that wasn’t related to herself (she supposed if she hadn’t met Mary, she would’ve bitten the bullet and talked to Annie Stacks, even though she knew the older woman would’ve blabbed to her uncle). Thankfully, Mary was off-duty, and drove over (after chuckling for a bit) when Molly told her the reason why.

“Ah, it’s good to get out of the house when it’s good news,” the blonde woman grinned at the dyed-ginger. “Lucky you, you called right after nappie-changing.”

“Oh,” Molly silently thanked her lucky stars that it was the case.

Mary laughed, “Oh, you,” she smiled, and hugged the younger woman sideways, since Bea was in the baby bjorn in the front and was carrying a baby seat in her other hand. “It’s the first time I get to do older sister duty.”

Molly blushed, then set about pouring them tea. “Well, it’s odd. I mean, in my head, it seemed nice that I got to know more about Sherlock in something for once, but when I thought about it, I really don’t know how to have a healthy relationship. I know how to have unhealthy ones, but I’d feel really guilty if his first relationship was as horrible as mine was. That, and I’m not sure how to be in charge, or if I’m supposed to be.” She sat down and ran a hand through her hair. And by the state of her chopped hair standing up in odd places, it wasn’t the first time.

Mary had settled the baby girl into her seat while Molly was talking, and sat down by the time the younger woman was doing something to her already-mussed hair. “Word of warning, love, but this is my first healthy relationship, too. I lied in my previous relationships by both necessity and want, but John was the first and only one who knew who I really was and stayed with me.” Her large blue eyes slid to her daughter, who had just started pounding on the restraints. As she unbuckled her child, who seemed to wake up rather than go back to the nap she’d gotten on the ride over, Mary continued, “And the only one I’ve wanted to keep alive, for that matter. So take everything I say with that in mind.”

“All right,” Molly nodded, then gulped her slowly-cooling tea. “Out of curiosity, when did you know you were in love with him?”

A brief smile crossed the blonde woman’s face. “John happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I had the choice to either kill him and cover my tracks, or let him continue to help me take out the others and tell him what the hell was going on. Previously, there wouldn’t have been a choice, I’ve taken out my fair share of one-night stands and short-time lovers before without another thought. But with John, I actually thought about it, and when I did, there was only one choice: Him.” She took a sip of tea, then smirked. “It didn’t hurt that he was a teeny bit hot when he was taking out my competition. God, afterwards, we had such incredible--”

“Oh my God,” Molly groaned, her face pinking just a bit.

Mary chuckled. “All right, you’ve heard the sordid truth about me and John. What about you and Sherlock? Did you really kiss and make up?”

“Um, not quite,” Molly said vaguely. “That’s why I asked you over. I mean, he said he forgave me and all, and we hugged, but I don’t know what to do next. I mean, it’s the first time I’d be in charge, so to speak. And I don’t want to be a Bertram, even if I am a girl.”

“What?” Mary blinked.

“Sorry, character from a Shakespeare comedy. He’s the male lead, but he’s a horrible misogynist and playboy, and warped the love of the female lead while attempting to take the virginity of another woman,” Molly waved her hand a bit while she explained. “In other words, a horrible beast to women who loved him, and even to those who didn’t.”

“Ugh,” Mary wrinkled her nose. “I see what you mean. But I think you’d know better than to be a Bertram. I mean, you’ve got personal experience in what it’s like to be at the mercy of someone like Bertram, and I think you’d do the opposite of that. By the same token, however, if Sherlock Holmes shows any of that sort of behavior, let me know and-- ”

“Point taken,” Molly interrupted hurriedly. “He can be a rude git, but it’s like he’s put on kid gloves when it comes to me and anything to do with feelings. I,” she paused, “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Mary’s heart went out to this young woman, who had a lovely personality but the worst choice in men previously, and paid the price for it. “Then take your time,” she said, not worried about the betting pool because her own deadline had come and gone, “he’s yours. And don’t be afraid to talk things out, but by the same token, be willing to listen. Like you said, this is his first romantic relationship. He won’t know the ‘unspoken rules’ about a lot of things, but take that as a good thing, you can teach him what could or would be expected.” She smiled gently, not wanting to point out that in Sherlock Holmes’ case, this would probably be his only romantic relationship, and if it wasn’t, it would be a hell of a long time before he tried again. But Molly was already under enough self-made pressure. She decided to put a positive spin on things. “Forget Bertram, you could be Pygmalion,” she said.

Molly frowned. “Who’s that?”

Before she answered, the nurse picked up her daughter, who was reaching for the tea cup. “Long-ago Greek sculptor who fell in love with the statue he carved,” she said, “he begged the goddess Aphrodite for a wife ‘like his statue’, but when he kissed the statue, it came to life. Later writings have turned this love of an inanimate object into molding a young woman into what men desire.” She wrinkled her nose, “It probably doesn’t help that Sherlock Holmes is already lovely, does it?”

The tattoo artist laughed. “He’s oddly lovely,” she agreed. “I don’t think I’m as egotistical to think that I could mold him into what I want. He’s got enough of a personality as it is.”

Mary snorted, which made Bea gurgle and both women laugh. “That’s sweet of you to think so, but think of what you were like before your first boyfriend, and yourself now. There’s a world of difference, and not just because you had terrible experiences. You’ve learned that both actions and words make a lot of difference. That small acts of affection sometimes mean more than showy once-in-a-while chocolates (although you should never turn that down, either). That patience and loyalty have more worth than flashy apologies and expensive jewelry. That it’s good to be appreciated and respected, and that goes both ways,” she nodded and Molly nodded back. “Sherlock doesn’t have that experience, he’s seen it, I’m sure, from his own parents, but seeing is different than living it, day to day.” And she tilted her head with a knowing smile. “And you get to introduce him to the wonderful world of sex.”

“Oh, God,” Molly groaned, “we haven’t even kissed yet! What I do know is that sex too early messes things up.” And she made a face, wishing that the tea contained something a bit stronger.

Mary blinked. “Oh!” Well, she supposed the pool was still open, then. Then she smiled a mischievous smile. “Well, in that case, you can welcome him to the wonderful world of French kissing.”

The younger woman blinked back, then laughed. “That reminds me of something I used to believe when I was in primary,” she grinned when she got her breath back, “I thought that only French people used tongue, so I was determined never to kiss a French man until I was twenty.”

The blonde woman also laughed, which made Bea wave in her face for a bit until she calmed down. “Sorry, Bea,” she smiled at her daughter, “Mummy’s a bit taken with that thought.” Then she smiled at her friend. “So, did you kiss a French man at twenty?”

Molly blushed. “Eighteen,” she mumbled, and her blush deepened when her friend laughed harder. “Hush,” she grumbled, “I’m sure you believed all sorts of silly things in primary that you were determined to correct when you knew better.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mary gasped, wiping at her eyes, “I wonder what Sherlock believes, even at this age.”

“Don’t tell him about the French kissing!” Molly begged.

But Mary smiled her mischievous smile again. “Oh, we’ll see,” she hummed at her daughter, bouncing her happily on her lap. Bea gurgled, unaware of what her mummy and her mummy’s friend were talking about. “Besides, I’ve a feeling that Sherlock’s ducked out for the same reason you called me.”

That thought had Molly paling. “You think he went to see John?” she said, aghast.

But Mary blithely continued to bounce her daughter on her lap. “Yes, indeed,” she murmured, “Molly’s young man needs some advice, right, Baby Bea? And of course, he’d look for a doctor!”

“But it’s _John_ ,” Molly sank in her seat, the full implications hitting her hard. “Your _husband. Flirting_ John.”

“Hm? Oh,” Mary blinked, as if the negatives had just occurred to her. Perhaps they had. “Oh dear.”

Molly rolled her large brown eyes. “Yeah,” she muttered, then sighed and sat up. “Should we go rescue him?”

“Call first and see if he needs rescuing,” Mary suggested, back to being practical. “Or if he simply needs bail money.”

Molly grinned, then pulled out her mobile, but it was Mary’s mobile which rang. Both women looked at each other, and Mary answered, “John?”

And her good mood was dashed when it seemed Molly’s swain had dragged him off to some unknown place to do some unknown (but apparently legal) deeds. When Mary rang off, she narrowed her eyes at Molly. “You really should teach your boyfriend to communicate,” she said.

“Oh, what’s Sherlock done?” Molly frowned, not quite getting the gist of the conversation.

The blonde woman rolled her large blue eyes. “Oh, apparently, Sherlock had some mysterious mission for John, which is practically like dangling raw meat in front of a shark. ‘Course I told him he was sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Molly tried to smother a grin, but wasn’t quite successful, so her lips were twitching a bit. “First time I’ve heard of Sherlock leading him around rather than vice versa,” she noted.

“Hmm,” Mary hummed to herself, “there is that. We’ll see if it’s better or worse when they come back from whatever it is.”

“Oh!” Molly leaned forward. “While you’re here, would you mind helping me go over the play a bit? I’ll watch over Bea, if that helps.”

“All right, I suppose you can feed her the bottle in half an hour,” Mary agreed. “It’s still ‘Much Ado’, correct?” The younger woman nodded, and she typed the title in the search engine, and hummed at her daughter, who had caught sight of the colorful tattoo photos adorning the walls. When Bea jumped around a bit, her arms outstretched, both women looked to where the little girl was reaching. Mary laughed while Molly snorted. “Oh, she’s got excellent taste,” she said, “she’s starting on her dinosaur phase a bit early, but there’s girls for you.” The dinosaurs in question weren’t the cartoon type, but rather, more photorealistic, predators ripping into their prey with a visceral bloodthirstiness that would seemingly belie the artist herself. “Was that off the net, or did you get it off a sketch first?”

“The net,” Molly nodded, then smiled when the blonde woman grinned suddenly. “Speaking of, the play finally loaded?”

Mary nodded back. “All right, where do we start?”


	39. Chapter 39

As a result of her talk with Mary, Molly found herself continuing to second-guess herself, which made her feel and act like she was a teenager all over again. Thankfully, she didn’t have to deal with things like acne and whatnot, but it felt horribly embarrassing and awkward, which she thought would be more Sherlock’s problem. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy “experimenting”, as he called it, kissing her in the oddest spots. On the palm of her hand was an erogenous zone she hadn’t counted on, although she knew her carotid artery and the dip above her collarbones were. Likewise, he liked it when she kissed his nose (it made him giggle, which he steadfastly would deny until she did it again, and he giggled again), and sucking on his Adam’s apple got him quite excited, indeed.

But whenever they tried to kiss on the lips, it ended up as awkward as Molly felt. Sometimes, there would be too much tongue, and other times, both their lips would be chapped, which wasn’t much fun, either. What ended up happening was first, a bad kiss on the lips, which would be followed by a good kiss elsewhere. Molly found her elbow to be ticklish, but so did Sherlock (his high-pitched “eep!” was something she wished she could record for posterity, since he wouldn’t allow her to kiss it again).

Something else that was embarrassing was how often people caught them at bad kissing. There was Mrs. Hudson, of course, who had frozen in place, before moving on when she caught them slobbering over each other in the kitchen. The subsequent glimpses of horror she’d caught, she’d only clucked sorrowfully, Sherlock quickly cutting her off before she could try to offer helpful hints.

Then there was Molly’s Uncle Robbie, who almost snorted his morning coffee out of his nose when he saw Sherlock try to kiss her on the sidewalk after a breakfast visit. He’d winced, then shook his head, for a moment he thought he’d have to call for a dentist, they came at each other too fast and too hard, he could hear their teeth clacking against each other from his vantage point in garage.

Even Greg saw the unfortunate couple kissing badly on his watch. He made a face, then sighed. “John, the way those two kiss are either a crime, or an injury waiting to happen,” he said, “I don’t understand it. Do they know about the bet? Are they doing it on purpose?”

John, who’d seen his fair share of bad kisses, started with a sigh. “I know what you mean, but no, they’re genuinely terrible at it. I would think that between Molly’s experience and Sherlock’s genius, they’d figure something out, but it’s a bit horrifying, to be honest. Can you arrest them on charges of mutual endangerment or something?”

“Maybe if they draw blood, which, at this point, won’t be long now,” Greg said glumly. “On the brighter side, if Sherlock’s kidnapping you again, can I catch a ride with you?”

John smirked as he saved his report on his third case of chicken pox. For some reason, that was starting to go around, and he’d have to have a talk with the primary school about preventative injections and how to ease the symptoms for current cases. “I think it’s called carpooling, not kidnapping, if it’s voluntary.”

The silver-haired cop snorted. “We’ve all been in the same car with him driving. I don’t know about you, but I’m in for the thrills. How do you not hurl when he’s behind the wheel?”

The blonde doctor smiled blandly, even though the person he was talking to couldn’t see it. “There’s a reason he drives and not me. According to him, I drive like I’m still in Afghanistan, which is a bit much for him, poor thing.”

“That’s a bit disturbing,” Greg noted. “I’m almost curious, but not at the cost of a limb. Or the contents of my stomach.”

John laughed, “Sure, you can join the mutual kidnapping party. Got your earplugs?”

“Yeah. After watching Sherlock and Molly try to kiss, can you give me blinders, too?” Greg grinned. “Or some kind of eye drops that will cause temporary blindness?”

John could only fall into a giggle fit before he hung up, unable to talk any more. He was seriously thinking he should give Sherlock some personal snogging tips, in spite of his lovely wife’s threats to geld him. It’d be worth it, he thought to himself, if even long-suffering Greg wants to blind himself. And no, he’s _not_ counting any of those kisses as an actual kiss. Crimes against humanity, yes, an honest-to-God snog, no.


	40. Chapter 40

Four nights later, Molly and Sherlock were running through their lines with Miss Smith. “Um, Miss Smith?” Molly asked after going through the grueling Act 5, Scene 1. It was almost as painful as Act 4, Scene 1, but for different reasons.

“Yes?” the elderly woman raised her head from her book.

And Molly forced herself to look the elder woman in the eyes, a clear sign she was nervous, even though Sherlock told her she shouldn’t be. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t the one asking for a change of plans. “Um, I was wondering, is it possible to bring others in for the reading?”

“Others? Such as?” Miss Smith raised an eyebrow, but she was more curious than impatient.

“Well, not _everyone_ in town, but there are people I’ve been practicing with, like Mary and Mrs. Hudson, as well as my uncle, John, and Greg,” Molly answered. “And, talented as Sherlock is, I think it’d be nice if he were allowed to split his duties with others. He says he hasn’t caught your pneumonia, but his intermittent hoarseness is a worrying thing.”

“Mmm, yes,” the white-haired woman gave the young man a sharp assessing gaze, and he forced himself not to tremble. After all, that was _his_ trick, not hers! “Very well, I suppose we could move this to the porch. There’s more room, and if we need refreshments, the kitchen is close by.”

“Thank you!” Molly hugged the elder woman, who grinned and hugged her back. “Oh, and can Annie come, too?”

The old woman’s forehead creased with more wrinkles. “Who’s Annie?”

“My uncle’s girlfriend, Annabella Stacks,” the young woman answered. “She’s got a really good memory, so you won’t have to worry about anything, she’s been something like a stage manager and prompter when I practice with others.”

“Annabella Stacks,” Miss Smith murmured to herself, then nodded. “Yes, she’ll do. Very well. But until then, let’s go on to Scene 2.”

“Oh, okay,” Molly blushed.

“You’ve rehearsed this before, you and Sherlock love each other now, and still you blush,” Miss Smith teased. “Will you still blush once you’re in bed with him?”

“Miss Smith!” Molly felt her whole face turn red.

Sherlock, however, was baffled. That irritated him. “Why are you blushing? I’ve already been in bed with you,” he grumbled at his girlfriend.

Miss Smith realized he was referring to something else entirely and thoroughly innocuous, unfortunately, even though Molly covered her face. “Forgive me, I was being delicate,” the elderly woman smirked. “Let me be indelicate. I wondered if the young lady would still blush after you’ve had sexual intercourse.”

“Why is she talking about intercourse?” he hissed to Molly. “What is wrong with everyone, asking if we’re snogging or having sex?”

“Speaking of which, have you managed to kiss without killing each other yet?” the old woman pressed on. “Even the good DI Lestrade seems worried about the public welfare witnessing a crime against romance.”

“We do well enough, thank you,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, nettled.

“A word to the wise, then,” Miss Smith continued, undaunted. “Let Molly lead, gently. But I’m just a batty old woman, what do I know?” she held her thin spotted hands up in surrender, fluttering her eyelids over her large pale eyes helplessly.

“Please, we’re far fast the point where we’d fall for that,” Sherlock muttered, and Molly giggled.

So the elderly woman changed her tactics. “If nobody else shows you, I will,” Miss Smith smirked, “come here, Molly.”

“Oh my God,” Molly blushed again.

“Will you stop talking sex talk at my girlfriend?” Sherlock snapped. “Anyways, before a certain disgusting creature opened her mouth and proceeded to lower the IQ of the area, we were about to go into Scene 2, correct?”

Miss Smith only raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock launched into the second scene of the last act. Molly joined in with some relief, but she knew they couldn’t put off dealing with their kissing problem forever.

And so it was that when Sherlock dropped Molly off, she asked him to come in. He frowned slightly. “Why?”

She blushed. “We’ve already practiced our lines,” she said, “but I don’t think we’ve ever practiced kissing.”

Curious, he followed her in. “So you agree with Miss Smith,” he said, “we need to improve our kissing.”

She paused before she walked into the kitchen. “Sherlock, you know she’s just one of many people who are worried about us,” she said. “And I know you’d enjoy it more if we weren’t nearly braining each other each time we try. Besides, I feel really bad about that,” she pointed to a scar on his forehead.

“Just a scratch,” he said, touching it.

She shook her head, then went into the kitchen to make tea. “And we’ve never tried with me leading slowly. I’m afraid if I continue the way we’ve been doing, you’ll get a concussion or worse.”

“I’m fine,” he argued, but they both knew his heart wasn’t in it. Honestly, he was wondering himself that they managed to do it so badly so often. And he was too embarrassed to ask anyone in case they might laugh at him or worse. It really was a pity that genius didn’t transfer itself to something even normal people managed on a regular basis. “All right, then how does one go about it gently?” he pouted.

Molly smiled up at him. “Come here,” she said, and held her hands up to his face.

Sherlock thought she looked adorable like that, but felt that was a bit too sentimental to say out loud, even if they were dating. He leaned down, and put a hand against the counter top. “Like this?”

She nodded. “Okay, hold still,” she murmured, and stretched her neck a bit, still framing his face in her hands, then kissed him gently on the lips. Wow. His lips were a lot softer and fuller than she thought. “Can you kiss me back like that?’ she said softly after letting go of the kiss and his face.

His eyes fluttered open, and he smiled. “All right.” And he held her small little face in his hands, tilted his head as she’d tilted hers, and aimed his lips on hers. She closed her eyes when they landed softly but squarely on hers, and she smiled a little. He chased her lips, and gasped when she hummed. “Was that supposed to happen?” he asked her.

“What?” she blinked slowly. That went much nicer than expected.

“You, humming,” he said.

“Oh! Was it uncomfortable?” Molly frowned.

“No!” he blurted back. “I, uh, liked it.” And the light spots of color on his impossible cheekbones seemed to confirm that.

She smiled. “Okay. Well. Two kisses and we haven’t brained each other!” And she gave him a celebratory hug.

He smiled as he hugged her back, but rolled his eyes. “Miss Smith is going to be insufferable, you realize,” he muttered.

“We don’t have to tell her,” she grinned up at him.

He wrinkled his nose. “If I can tell who’s snogged who, she certainly can. Bet the nosy old bat has suddenly risen from her coffin and gave a great cheer without realizing why.”

Molly laughed and hugged him closer. “You’re a silly, silly genius, but you’re my silly genius,” she said.

“I’m not silly,” he huffed, his lower lip pouting out.

“That’s okay, I’m silly, too,” she said, “taking forever to let my pride stand in the way of two really good kisses.”

“They were good, weren’t they?” he smiled proudly.

Molly smiled and pulled him down for another kiss. They didn’t stop until the kettle whistled, and after having a quick cup of tea, they continued to kiss. Successfully.


	41. Chapter 41

Ever since that night when they kissed without literally hurting each other, they haven’t said a word to Miss Smith about how helpful her advice was. Or anyone else, for that matter. Besides, when they’ve tried to kiss in public, they’re back to their usual awkward nervousness and fail spectacularly, so it wasn’t like they would be believed.

“Why am I nervous? I should be proud of you! _Am_ proud of you!” Sherlock sputtered after a failed kiss at the flower shop had prompted a visiting couple to buy a pity bouquet. “And why did they call it a ‘pity bouquet’?”

Molly laughed, then blushed. “I don’t care, you’re twenty pounds richer.”

“I don’t do this for the money,” he glared at her.

“Of course not,” she held her hands up. “Now that they’re gone, however, want to try that kiss again?”

He smiled and moved to join her, but then John came to kidnap him for one of their mysterious “jaunts”. She’d only rolled her eyes when Sherlock tried to put on an innocent face, then waved them off.

But after one such “kidnapping/jaunt”, Molly had to ask. “Sherlock, what the hell are you and the boys up to?” she asked as she gave him a honey-laded cup of tea.

Sherlock bought himself a bit of time cooling the tea before taking a sip. “Boys? They’re grown men.”

“And so are you, although I wonder sometimes,” Molly’s mouth’s pout twisted to the side as he continued to drink his tea calmly. “So?”

“So what?” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Sherlock.”

“Molly.”

They stared at each other for a while, then Sherlock sighed. “It’s important,” he said. “And ‘the boys’, as you call them, are doing well. And it’s nothing illegal, in case that slipped your mind.”

Molly rolled her large brown eyes. “Somehow, that’s less reassuring than the first time you said it. I’m not sure how you managed that.”

He grinned. “It’s a talent, or so I’m told.”

She sighed. “I don’t know how Mary keeps from killing John, I really don’t.”

Sherlock made a face. “They have lots and lots of sex.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling that the longer we stay friends with them, the more kids they’ll have,” Molly mused as she made tea. “Do you think that if I claim Mary as a sister, my mum’ll leave off nagging me about kids?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Sherlock said, “and why won’t you claim John as a brother?”

Molly gave him a look. “He flirted with Uncle Robbie when you were in the loo that one time.”

“Oh yes, your uncle seemed disconcerted,” Sherlock remembered.

“And confused, and thankfully for John, amused, or he would’ve been sent flying.” She crossed her arms. “Seriously, Sherlock, whatever you do on your jaunts, is it necessary to delay the staged reading for it?”

His demeanor, while it was once relaxed, now tensed. “Yes,” he said, “it is entirely necessary.”

Molly frowned, then sighed again. “All right,” she said, “but if John or Greg knows your lines better than you do, I’m pulling them in for Claudio duty.”

He gasped in affront. “You wouldn’t dare,” he narrowed his eyes.

She laughed, then hugged him. “No, I wouldn’t,” she agreed. “It would gut me if anyone else said to me what Claudio says to Hero in Act 4.”

He held her close. “And I would never let anyone else tell you that. I’d tear them apart if they did.” He exhaled, ruffling the top of her head. “I hate telling you that myself.”

“I know,” she murmured against his collarbone, “it looks like you want to cut your tongue out and set it on fire when we finish.”

He huffed a laugh. “I thought I hid it well.”

“It was that or constipation,” Molly laughed, and he tried to fight a laugh, then gave up. His laughter made her head bounce, which made her laugh more. “Oh, Sherlock,” she gasped, “we are ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said, not sounding as nettled as he hoped. Good thing they were in her kitchen rather than in his shop, or his reputation would suffer.

She snorted, then said, “If your head was bouncing against my chest and stomach when I laughed, you’d know what I mean. It’s the silliest thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll always be taller than you, but in the spirit of experimentation,” he said, then grabbed her hand and towed her to the living room and onto the sofa. “Now, you lie down and I’ll put my head on your stomach, and you start laughing.”

She giggled at his straight-forward tone and laid down. “Okay,” she said, “but how are you going to fit?”

He sat on the floor, then put his head on her stomach. “Laugh,” he commanded.

She laughed at the silliness of it, and laughed some more when she saw his head bouncing slightly on her stomach. It was obvious he was trying to keep a clear head about his experiment, but his mouth twitched and he started laughing, too. The bass from his chuckles caused her to continue laughing, until it was a feedback loop of silliness.

“All right,” he gave in when managed to get his breath back, “you’re right, we are ridiculous.” And he smiled a small smile at her.

She smiled back. “Yes,” she said, then yawned. “Oh, goodness. Didn’t realize what a workout laughing could be. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, then stood up, “apparently coloring the entire backs of large male twins takes a lot out of the artist as well as the canvas.” He smirked when she automatically opened her mouth to ask how, but then shut it. “Even I know people usually take their time for a job like that, but apparently they were on a tight schedule for their double wedding. You are a terrible romantic, Molly Hooper.”

She grinned, yawned again and stretched before holding out a hand. After he pulled her up, she said, “Thank you. And you should talk, Sherlock Holmes, you had all of our friends call me to bring me back home.”

He blushed slightly. “Yes, well,” he mumbled, his eyes dropping to the ground, “I, we needed you.”

Her heart melted at that, so she pulled him in a hug and said, “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Molly,” he said as he hugged her back. Then kissed her on the cheek and ran off.

He could hear her giggling as the door closed, but he waited until he got to his greenhouse to make the call he both worked for and dreaded. “We did everything you asked,” he said, “will you make it stop?” He gritted his teeth as he added, “Please?”

He waited a few moments, then relaxed when he heard the answer. “We’re done, then,” he said. “Goodbye.”

Then he texted John and Greg with the message, “We’re done,” and expected them to do what he was doing, spending the rest of the evening going through their homes making sure that no trace of their doings would be found.


	42. Chapter 42

And now here they were, Sherlock, Molly, Robbie Hooper, Annie Stacks, Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary Watson (Bea was being babysat, just in case of adult hysterics), and Greg Lestrade at Miss Smith’s home. And Molly, in spite of having the idea to invite everyone else over, wanted nothing better than to run home and hide under the duvet.

Instead, the tattoo artist busied herself by helping the day nurse (whose name was Cora) with making the tea and lemonade. By the time the second pot of tea was finished, Molly deemed herself calmed down enough to face her family and friends and read out loud with them. Hm. When she put it to herself that way, perhaps it was a bit silly to be nervous about it, considering that she’d rehearsed everything to pieces with everyone out there.

Well, almost everyone. While she was in the kitchen, there was a new reader who had arrived who was mysterious, posh, and known to half the group and unknown to the other half. “Good evening, Miss Hooper,” the hawk-nosed man said in a familiar tone to her, with an umbrella at his side, even though it had been clear and warm all day. “Apparently, I will be reading as Don Pedro.” And he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who rolled his own right back.

“No, that’s what you _wanted_ to read,” Sherlock huffed, “you just sat down while Molly was out and said,” and his voice changed to match the older man’s, “ ‘I shall be reading as Don Pedro’. Thought I was done with you, and you show up like the devil.”

“Forgive me, I did want to see what all the fuss was about,” the older man said smoothly and insincerely, as if Sherlock hadn’t been grumbling, “I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother. So pleased to meet you.”

“Umbrella ninjas, my arse,” Miss Smith muttered, then swatted the back of John’s head.

“Ow!” But the blonde man grinned unrepentantly. “So, Sherlock’s mysterious older brother, bet you’ve got prize childhood stories to tell about this one.”

Sherlock glared at his so-called friend, while Mycroft only sniffed. “Pity, if you’d tried to bribe me, that might’ve gone off better.”

“Can’t bribe a powerful man,” John smirked, “besides, Greg would kill me if I tried to bribe you the way I usually do.” And to everyone’s surprise, both the tanned DI and the icy bespoke-suited man blushed at that. “Greg, be a love and bribe him the way I would.”

“Shut up, Watson,” the tanned man grumbled, but the blush remained.

A smart clap brought everyone’s attention to the hostess. “Now that we’ve all got acquainted, here are the ground rules,” Miss Smith flashed a sharp smile at everyone, especially Mycroft, who suddenly found himself wanting to squirm in his seat. “You must stay in your seats, since this is a reading, not a fully-staged performance. And, most important, you must entertain me.” She leaned back in her seat, which was nicely cushioned and supported, thanks to her day nurse. “You may begin,” she said, in a regal voice that surprised no one except, perhaps, the newcomer, who found himself straightening up a bit.

To Molly’s relief, everyone obeyed the ground rules for the most part and stayed in their seats, even Miss Smith (mostly because Cora didn’t let her get away with much), and Annie kept everyone on track, even when they flubbed a line or tried to get cheeky. And there was much cheekiness going on, especially at the expense of Molly and Sherlock. Robbie Hooper enjoyed his role as Leonato, not-so-gently joking his actual niece through his play niece, and John and Greg made the most of their minor roles as well as their originally-voiced-by-Sherlock ones. Even Mycroft got into the hang of teasing his younger brother by teasing Benedick, Claudio, and Don John, all of whom were still read by Sherlock.

It wasn’t until Scene 2, Act 3, that Sherlock, John and Greg got up. “What is it?” Miss Smith narrowed her eyes.

“You told me to compose original music for the song, didn’t you? Amazingly, you never pestered me about it, but I did complete it,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as they walked to the large lorry which occasionally doubled as a police car for Lestrade. “I’ve also got some help performing it.”

“Trust him to ask for help only for a frivolous purpose,” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Hush, young man,” Miss Smith snapped, which made Mycroft raise his eyebrows and Sherlock grin hard. “Well? Let’s see the project you’ve been dilly-dallying on.”

Like a clown car, they took a number of instruments, speakers, microphones, and electronic gadgets out of the lorry, then set their instruments up on the yard in front of the porch. Sherlock had something that looked like a plastic skeleton of a violin, and hooked that up to an amplifier, while Lestrade did the same with an electric guitar. John set up his drum kit, during which Sherlock and Lestrade set up the microphones. When they were done, the curly haired man nodded, then John clacked the drumsticks smartly together for a three count, which set off Sherlock and Lestrade shredding the chords on their instruments, while John tattooed a swift rhythm. Annie spit her tea out, Robbie stared, and the day nurse, whom Sherlock had discreetly notified earlier, inserted ear plugs into Miss Smith and Mrs. Hudson’s ears. Mary smirked while Mycroft dropped his teacup as well as his jaw.

And Molly, well, she glowed like it was her birthday, Christmas, and a giant man to tattoo all at once. “Oh yes,” she sighed happily, “it was entirely necessary.”

 _“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,  
 Men were deceivers ever,  
 One foot in sea and one on shore,  
 To one thing constant neverrrr!!!”_ Sherlock growled into the microphone as he sawed on the skeletal violin, John beating on the drums like it offended him personally, and Molly’s smile, which had already turned on with the opening notes, was practically blinding.

 _“Then sigh not so, but let them go,  
 And be you blithe and bonny,  
 Converting all your sounds of woe   
 Into Hey, nonny nonny,”_ John and Greg harmonized in a loud, dirge-like tune, Greg’s guitar and Sherlock’s violin harmonizing in counterpoint.

 _“Sing no more ditties, sing no moe  
 Of dumps so dull and heavy.  
 The fraud of men was ever so,  
 Since summer first was leavy,”_ Sherlock’s growl made Molly squeal, while Mary only shook her head.

 _“Then sigh not so, but let them go  
 And be you blithe and bonny,  
 Converting all your sounds of woe   
 Into Hey, nonny nonny,”_ John and Greg sang, then all three were screaming as they repeated the last line,  
  _“Into Hey, NONNY NONNYYYYY!!!”_ Needless to say, they all struck their “rock god” poses when they were done, and Mary not-so-discreetly took several pictures of them with her mobile.

Molly jumped to her feet and screamed, “I love you, Sherlock!” And she ran across the yard and hugged her boyfriend.

They grinned like a couple of loons as they hugged, until Greg cleared his throat. “Equipment won’t pack itself,” he said, “sorry to interrupt true love.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, but gave Molly a quick peck on the cheek as she let go. She blushed and ran to the kitchen to make a tray of honey-laden tea for the boys.

“That explains why he wanted a sitter for Bea,” Mary sighed, while Robbie and Annie only smiled at each other, and Miss Smith and Mrs. Hudson giggled at Mycroft’s faint blush and not-so-discreet ogling of a certain DI. While the “band” was busy packing up their equipment, the rest of the group gossiped about them, how long they’d been practicing, and how long it had been some kind of crazy rock melody.

And when the three men rejoined them, the short dyed-ginger hopped up. “Here you go,” Molly offered Sherlock the first cup of tea before offering it to John and Greg. Sherlock smiled a small smile, then drank it down while Mary snogged the face off her husband and Mycroft smiled shyly at Greg, who took the offered teacup.

“Oh, just kiss him, we know you’re dying to,” Mary smirked at Greg, and the others shared her sentiment.

“Not until those two do,” the silver-haired man jerked a thumb at Molly and Sherlock, “if they can manage to do it without killin’ each other.”

“We do not injure each other, we’re perfectly fine!” Sherlock snapped.

“Reeeeeeally,” the policeman didn’t look all that impressed with the ferocity of that answer, and crossed his arms as he leaned back. “Go on, then.”

“We are not performing monkeys,” Sherlock grumbled as Molly sighed.

“Says the man who growled his throat out just now for his lady love,” the doctor grinned.

“Shut up,” the florist glared, then grabbed Molly. His kiss, unlike his grab, was soft and gentle, and very effective as her eyes stayed closed. Several mouths hung open. “Your turn,” he narrowed his eyes at Lestrade, while Molly blushed, blinking slowly.

“Dammit!” more than a few people muttered, which made the just-kissed couple confused.

“Was that your first kiss?” John asked as he pulled out his notebook.

“I told you, no,” Sherlock gave him an odd look.

The blonde man sighed. “No, I mean, one where neither of you looked like you were going to get seriously injured.”

Molly and Sherlock looked at each other. “Yes, it was three weeks and two days ago. Why?” the florist blinked.

“Dammit!” more people swore, and John sighed again.

John gave the couple a level glare. “You mean to say that you managed to kiss properly before without us seeing?”

“Ye-eeees,” Sherlock drawled, but gave him a more piercing look. “What’s this about?”

Mycroft smoothly pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket in his tailored jacket. “I believe we all owe John Watson money for guessing wrongly about when the two of you kissed properly,” he said, “and for underestimating how well we have surveilled you. We shall have words.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snipped automatically. “That goes for the rest of you, too,” he added, as even Miss Smith had the day nurse send over her losings. “Honestly. The whole lot of you. I despair for humanity.”

“Oh hush, it was lovely,” Mrs. Hudson patted the curly haired man as if he were no more than five. “What you did for Molly, even before you two got together properly.”

“Yes, brother dear, how very enlightening,” Mycroft’s smug face made Sherlock want to punch him. 

Instead, Sherlock thought he’d have his revenge another way. “I believe you were owed a kiss by our local detective inspector, weren’t you, brother dear?” he sneered.

But the sharp-dressed man merely smiled at the casually-dressed man. “Another time, perhaps. I do so like to take my time with a good thing,” he said, which made Greg blush under his tan.

After the hoots and cheers died down, the former headmistress clapped her hands smartly, and everyone settled down quickly. “Now that we’ve gotten all the high spirits out of the way, I do believe I was promised a play, and I’ve only seen two-fifths of it,” Miss Smith raised an eyebrow. 

Mycroft smirked as he sat next to the blushing detective, then said, completely insincerely,   
“ ‘By my troth, a good song.’ ”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. “ ‘And an ill singer, my lord,’ ” he said, his tone humble but his expression sharp.  
“ ‘Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift,’ ” Mycroft said smoothly.  
“ ‘An he had been a dog that should have howled thus,  
they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad  
voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the  
night-raven, come what plague could have come after  
it,’ ” Sherlock read as Benedick, somehow managing to keep a smirk in his voice, but his eyes still cutting at his older brother.

The scene went on, but Mycroft was soon joined by John and Robbie, who conspired with Sherlock as Claudio to make Benedick fall in love with Beatrice by claiming that Beatrice first fell for him. And that’s when the play moved from merely silly to utterly ridiculous, as Sherlock talked himself into falling in love. Again.


	43. Chapter 43

Act 4 began with wedding prattle by the ladies, Mary at her smirking best as she put innuendos to everything, while Molly was working hard at being both the shell-shocked Beatrice and the worried Hero. And when Claudio shredded Hero’s reputation to shreds, it was real tears Molly shed, to her surprise. After all, they’d rehearsed this play what seemed like a thousand times, but it apparently emotions were running high. Even Robbie looked torn by the horrible things his character said about Hero, so when Benedick finally swore to Beatrice that he would duel Claudio for Hero’s honor, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived, however, thanks to Mr. Shakespeare. By the time the horror of the fourth act finished with a parody of justice, the readers were wrong out, and Miss Smith called for an impromptu break.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be one earlier?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Everyone grumbled at that, and Miss Smith waved off his objection with a thin mottled hand. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I would like to have a bit of dinner. Unlike some people, I don’t exist on nothing but air and cram. A proper soup and sandwich, and some tea will do, and if you wish to join me, you may. If not, I’ll thank you not to smoke in my garden.”

Both Mycroft and Greg looked surprised at that, but Robbie only chuckled. “Bless you, Miss Smith, I think I could do with a bite. Have you got enough for us all, or should I keep to one sandwich?”

Annie laughed and hugged her boyfriend. “There’s a reason I went shopping earlier, love. And yes, there’s enough for us all, courtesy of Miss Smith.”

“Thank you, Miss Smith,” the large bearded man said bashfully, and everyone else echoed him.

Annie, Sherlock, Cora the day nurse, and Robbie brought out the food and drinks, and dinner was something of a buffet affair. Miss Smith and Mrs. Hudson, however, were served as if they were dowager dames, which the former took as her due and the latter was tickled pink at the service. “Oh, isn’t this lovely,” she gushed, “nibbles just the right size, and tasty, too!”

And they all relaxed, even Mycroft, and enjoyed themselves with a good meal and good company. Most admitted to the strangeness of being both actor and audience, but they were having fun. “Thanks for inviting us, Molly,” Greg smiled at her.

“She didn’t invite _you_ ,” Sherlock glared at his brother.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Mycroft smirked at his younger brother.

The florist’s eyes sharpened. “Apparently the world doesn’t rank as high as a small staged reading of a play done to pieces,” he said. “Let’s hope England is still standing after tonight.”

“Very funny,” the hawk-nosed man said, nettled in spite of himself.

Fortunately for the reading group (and the rest of the world), they separated into smaller groups, Sherlock, Molly, Mary and John in one corner, Annie, Robbie, Greg, and Mycroft in another, and Miss Smith, Cora, and Mrs. Hudson close to the buffet table. Robbie’s table mostly discussed football, but when Annie brought up rugby, John moved over, and even Mycroft shared his experiences having to reserve seats for visiting politicians for certain rugby games. Molly discovered, to her surprise, that she wasn’t the only one with an interest in corpses at the table, and she, Sherlock and Mary had themselves quite the conversation with nobody losing their appetite, for once. And the self-described “old batties’ table” was full of loud and lewd stories and laughter, and Molly suspected most of the stories was to keep Cora red-faced and hooting, because she was just so hilarious to watch that even she got distracted seeing the day nurse lose her head.

Fortified by the good food and conversations, everyone felt encouraged to plow through the last act. They moved their seats back to their former positions, and John and Robbie waited until Miss Smith was seated comfortably before picking up their playbooks.

“ ‘If you go on thus, you will kill yourself:  
And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief  
Against yourself,’ ” John read as Antonio, looking to the bearded man, who cleared his throat.

John’s words helped Robbie remember where his character was before the break, and he cleared his throat again. “ ‘I pray thee, cease thy counsel,  
Which falls into mine ears as profitless  
As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;  
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear  
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.  
Bring me a father that so loved his child,  
Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine,  
And bid him speak of patience,’ ” the bearded mechanic read, stilted at first, then more and more passionate as the speech went on.

By the end of the monologue, Robbie’s throat had tightened to a growl, and he grimaced an apology to his niece. He was less sad than angry, and he wondered how this old piece of writing could make him worked up so. It probably didn’t help that his actual niece had been defamed and broken by her former lover, but he thought that he’d got all that out of his system by now. Apparently not, as Molly nodded back, her face in a similar grimace. John continued to try to comfort Leonato through Antonio, even as his left hand twitched in a reflexive move to cover his own angry tremors.

When Don Pedro and Claudio rejoined the elder brothers, Leonato and Antonio got worked up again, for good reason. Mycroft was infuriatingly smooth as ever, while Sherlock played a smirking, naïve “spurned” lover which made everyone watching want to punch him.

They were a bit more forgiving when he read as a more sober Benedick, who challenged the faithless lover Claudio to a duel, and snapped at the unforgiving Don Pedro while he was at it. Claudio and Don Pedro would have continued on their witless ways, but were confronted by Lestrade’s Dogberry, Robbie’s Verges, and John’s Borachio as to the truth of the matter of Hero’s innocence and frame-up. The multi-parts collide when Robbie’s Leonato and John’s Antonio face against Borachio’s evil plot and Claudio’s delayed faithfulness.

By the end of the first scene, everyone was grimacing, and caught their breath when the second scene came breezing through. Mary’s Margaret teased Sherlock’s Benedick when he asked her to get Beatrice, and, when left to his own devices, was quite silly on his own. His attempts at song and poetry were horrible, and made faces when everyone laughed at his character’s antics, much as they did during the second act when he (and everyone else) persuaded Benedick to fall in love with Beatrice in the first place. When Beatrice joined Benedick in the garden, the flirting and clever wordplay continued between the couple, and Sherlock suffered more elbow nudges from John than he wished to deal with. Fortunately, the topic turned to Hero and her sudden change of fortune, when Mrs. Hudson’s Ursula brought the (somewhat) good news.

In the next scene, Claudio carried out the first part of his penance with an excessively flowery apology, which made everyone want to punch him again. Nobody expected Sherlock to sing a second time, or as simply and somberly as he did while playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major on his normal violin. When the scene ended, John leaned over. “Did that on purpose?” he asked in an undertone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock murmured back. He had ignored his brother’s pointed looks on the same question. He figured if he was going to be playing to irony, he might as well go all the way with playing a stereotypical wedding song for a funeral.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “ ‘Did I not tell you she was innocent?’ ” he blasted with the Friar’s opening line for the final scene, startling the murmuring duo. He smirked when they pretended as if they hadn’t jumped a bit in their seats, and waved at Robbie, who continued the scene as Leonato.

They all continued to read out the weird wedding, er, happy ending, with the unmasking of Hero and Beatrice. The silliness rears its head when Benedick and Beatrice resume their typical sparring, er, flirting, and Hero and Claudio, wanting to continue the “whole truth and nothing but the truth” in relationships, for once, add their testimony to the proceedings.

And when Sherlock read the infamous words, “ ‘Peace! I will stop your mouth,’ ” Robbie grabbed his head and his niece’s and held them together as if they were dolls playing pretend. The rest of the reader audience roared and clapped, especially when both Molly and Sherlock made matching disturbed cat-like faces at him.  
Then Mycroft smirked Don Pedro’s words, “ ‘How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?’ ”  
Sherlock smirked right back, his face a veritable “piss off”, but continued to read his lines. His smirk deepened when he got to the lines, “ ‘Prince,  
thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife:  
there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn.’ ” And he tilted his head at Lestrade, who blushed.

Then Sherlock read out the messenger’s lines in the nasal tone of the graffiti artist, and was ready to finish the play with Benedick’s lines when his older brother interrupted.

“ ‘Think not on him till to-morrow:  
I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him.  
Strike up, pipers!’ ” the sharp-dressed man clapped his hands in a gesture of finality.

When everyone else clapped, Sherlock pouted. “Those were _my_ lines,” he glared. “You always take my things.”

“It made more sense this way,” Mycroft sneered. “Don’t you think?” he inquired of Miss Smith, who snorted.

“Just like a Holmes to act first and ask later,” the elderly woman shook her head. “It’s a good thing you’re as powerful as the pompous act you put on.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned. “I am merely a government official in a minor position,” he said.

“No, you’re the British government, such as it is,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Minor position, your fat arse.”


	44. Chapter 44

But Mycroft, rather than continue the infantile argument (why was he always reduced to a mere nine year old when talking with his baby brother?), said his goodbyes. He was, in spite of his minor position, a rather busy man. “It truly was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft nodded at the petite woman. “And thank you for hosting, Miss,” he paused briefly but tellingly, “Smith.”

The white-haired woman smirked rather than shook. She’d met powerful men before, and spanked them and debased them, because the more powerful they were, the more debased they wanted to be. “And you, Mr. _Minor_ Position,” she grinned at his moue of distaste. “I believe you’d like to be in _other_ positions for our local detective inspector, wouldn’t you?” And, like Robbie Hooper, she shoved him with surprising energy towards the silver-haired man.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he recovered from his stumble, exhaled, then regained his veneer. “I look forward to seeing more of you,” he said smoothly to Greg, before catching the older man’s right hand in his and kissing the back of his hand like an old-fashioned gentleman.

And walked off, twirling his umbrella while Greg Lestrade could only smile in a dazed fashion. A long, expensive black car had come out of nowhere and picked up the elder Holmes, who practically glided into the open door and disappeared from view.

“Well, there’s a dramatic exit for you, definitely a Holmes there,” John grinned as he clapped a hand on the DI’s shoulder, startling him. Sherlock grimaced as Molly unsuccessfully smothered a grin. Annie and Robbie unobtrusively started clearing things out and cleaning up.

Sherlock, meanwhile, yelled, “Greg was my DI! Get your own!” Then he ground his teeth and flopped onto a chair. “Knew I shouldn’t have talked to him, knew something bad would come of it,” he grumbled to himself, pulling his legs up to the edge of his seat and holding himself like a child.

Molly frowned. “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

But it didn’t seem like he’d heard her. “Stupid Mycroft, always stealing my things,” he continued to grumble. “First my last line, and now my DI. Prat.”

Greg, however, had shaken enough of his daze by this point and stomped over to the pouting florist. “ _OI!_ ” he shouted, nearly felling Molly and startling Sherlock from his funk. Then he grimaced his apology at the petite woman, “Sorry, Molly.” In a more normal tone, he asked, “What’s his number?”

“No,” Sherlock glared up at him.

“What’s his number, Sherlock?” the silver-haired man narrowed his dark eyes as he repeated the question.

Sherlock only pinched his lips together like the pouting child he’d become.

Molly put her hands on her hips. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock!” she glared.

The florist sighed heavily. “Fine,” he said dully, then pulled out his mobile and texted him the number. “It’s not my fault if he’s worse at keeping appointments and working overtime than you are. And he’s all the way in _London_ , out of sight, out of mind.”

“And that’s why God created the motorcycle,” Greg grinned, which earned him a loud groan from the younger Holmes. “How’d the two of you end up so fancy? I’ve seen your parents, and they’re as ordinary as, well,” he shrugged, “me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Genius,” he said insouciantly, “don’t know about fancy.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Sherlock.” Then she gave Greg a meaningful look.

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Sherlock,” the DI grinned. “You two have fun, now.” As Sherlock continued his sulk, Greg walked over to Miss Smith. “Thanks for looking after those two,” he said, “I don’t envy your rehearsals, thankfully I only had Molly and Mrs. Hudson.”

The elderly lady cackled. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said, “and do be careful with the elder Holmes.”

“I know he’s a busy man, among other things,” Greg said, then hugged her. “We’ll see how it goes.” Then he nodded to Cora, “And God bless you for looking after this troublemaker.” He grinned a quick grin as he ran off to his lorry, then he peeled out, making the others smile.

“We should get our baby Bea,” Mary said, “come on, John.” And the Watsons made their rounds thanking everyone and saying their goodbyes, ending with their hostess. “Thank you for having us, Miss Smith,” the blonde woman hugged her.

“Delighted, Mrs. Watson,” the white-haired woman smiled a knowing smile at her.

John raised his eyebrows. “Told you,” he said to his wife, who only rolled her big blue eyes at him. “Take care, Miss Smith,” he said, hugging her, and wasn’t surprised to get his bum squeezed. “Well. _Something’s_ certainly healthy,” he waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Go on with you,” Miss Smith laughed.

“Miss Smith,” Mrs. Hudson scolded the older woman, but couldn’t help the twitch of her mouth.

“I did what everyone here wanted to do,” the elder woman shrugged, “would’ve done that to Mr. Lestrade, too, but he’d blush up a storm, and I don’t wish the elder Holmes to return for such a ridiculous reason.”

“They do make a lovely couple, though,” Mrs. Hudson smiled, “if Greg can handle Sherlock, I’m sure he can handle his older brother.”

“Oh, it’s not the handling I’m worried about,” the white-haired woman smirked, which earned another groan from the lump of Sherlock in the corner.

“Well, we’ve got everything sorted,” Annie said, “do you need anything else, Cora? Miss Smith?”

“Not a thing,” the old woman smiled while her day nurse shook her head. “Well, maybe to get well enough to see your wedding to Mr. Hooper here.”

Even with all that facial hair, anyone could see Robbie Hooper blushing up a storm. “G’bye, Miss Hooper,” he mumbled, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and ran off to his lorry, which made his girlfriend laugh.

“Good night, Miss Smith,” the wind chime artist said, and hugged the elderly woman. Then she wished everyone else a good night and joined her boyfriend before they drove off.

“You are a troublemaker,” Molly grinned, “and thanks, Miss Smith.” She hugged the thin woman, who hugged her tightly back. “Sherlock,” she called out, “come wish Miss Smith a good night.” He flung up a hand, then wrapped himself in a sulk again. “Not what I meant,” the dyed ginger said grimly.

Then she walked over and leaned into his space. “Sherlock, we’re taking Mrs. Hudson home and wishing Miss Smith and Cora a good night.” No answer. “Do you want to stay here all night? Because I can drive Mrs. Hudson home and leave you here if you want.”

He sprang to his feet like a mad jack-in-the-box, startling her. “Thank you for your diligent service,” he said to Cora, “you are the best of a bad lot. And you,” he narrowed his eyes at Miss Smith, who did the same, “you are worse than Mycroft at stirring the pot. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to behave at your age?”

Miss Smith smirked. “Pot, meet kettle,” she said. “Come here and give me a hug, you wretched reprobate.”

“Senile old bat,” he grumbled, but did as she said. “Come along, Mrs. Hudson,” he said in his usual imperious tone when he straightened up, “too much exposure to this evil crone might be contagious.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about him,” she told the older woman, “he’s just jealous.” As Sherlock gaped at her cheek, his landlady hugged the day nurse and the former headmistress and joined her renter and his girlfriend. “It’s so nice to meet you after all these years,” she said, “when you’re up to it, I’ll make a nice batch of scones for you.”

“Traitor,” Sherlock mumbled, which made the women laugh. “Good night,” he said curtly. But only Miss Smith caught the brief soft smile he wore before he smothered it and herded Mrs. Hudson and Molly to the car.


	45. Chapter 45

When they’d made sure that Mrs. Hudson was off to bed and not restocking her herbal soothers, Molly and Sherlock sat in the greenhouse. Well, Molly sat, while Sherlock tended to the plants and flowers. After a few moments, Molly set out a thermos of tea and poured herself and Sherlock a cup. “Sherlock?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“What was that about? Your brother being there, I mean?” she asked, then took a sip of tea. Still nicely hot, but not scalding.

“Sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted,” her boyfriend grumbled.

“I got that,” she said, amused. “No, I mean, why was he there in the first place? He honestly could have stayed home, or flirted with Greg another time. Why was he really there?”

Sherlock smirked as he straightened up and faced her. “No, he honestly couldn’t have flirted with Lestrade any other time. You gave a severely introverted and calculated man the perfect opportunity to meet and flirt with the man of his dreams on his own turf with his own friends, yet with enough social buffer to allow plausible deniability should Lestrade turn him down. The only other times our DI and my brother have met were for official business only.” And he took a deep bow.

Molly frowned. “What do you… oh. Greg was reporting to your brother on your health?”

“Among other things,” the tall man shrugged. “But it was never a social call. And my brother _never_ does social calls.” The smirk returned.

The petite woman gave him a level look. “I believe there’s more to it than that,” she said, finishing off the last of her tea. “Sherlock, does it have anything to do with what you, Greg, and John were doing out of town? And don’t tell me it was for band practice, because I know they weren’t that horrible or you wouldn’t have picked them. You needed them for something, and you needed your oddly powerful brother to help. Why?”

Sherlock downed his cup of tea, then sighed. “I thought this would come up much later. You are too perspicacious for your own good.”

“And you are stalling, Sherlock,” Molly crossed her arms.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, until Sherlock, probably heeding a long-buried instinct for self-preservation, decided to answer her. “Good news, you won’t ever have to worry about Tom or his cronies again,” he said after a quick pout. “Bad news, I owe John, Greg, and especially my large-nosed brother a favor. And no, we didn’t kill anybody.”

She blinked. “That hadn’t come to mind,” she said.

“Oh, good,” he said, although it seemed he expected her to think so. Odd man.

She pursed her lips. “So, it’s okay to go to London, then? And what happened to Tom?”

“You can go anywhere in the world you please,” Sherlock said. “And let’s just say a certain lawyer’s Bluebeard-like tendencies came to light, along with the aiding and abetting of his acquaintances, and they shouldn’t see the light of day for quite some time. Honestly, it’s as if tabloids have nothing better to do than dig up dirt on well-connected upper-class types.”

She smiled a large, wobbly smile. “You incredible, brilliant man,” she said, then hugged him. “Thank you.” Then she tilted her head. “Why didn’t you want to tell me if it was good news?”

His pale eyes skittered to the side. “I wanted to take you out to London and tell you there,” he mumbled.

“It’s okay,” she said, “we can do that whenever we want now. It doesn’t have to be dramatic, you know.” Then she kissed him on the cheek, and he smiled shyly at her.

“May I have a kiss on the lips?” he asked in a deep tone that made her feel like she was dissolving from her stomach to her toes.

“You may,” Molly smiled, then pulled him down for a nice, long kiss. It was nice enough and long enough that he moaned into her mouth. “One of these days, may I paint your back?” she asked. “I know you don’t want anything as permanent as a tattoo, but I think your back would make a lovely canvas.”

He blushed. “You may,” he said, and she beamed and kissed him on the other cheek. “And may I set up a windowsill garden? I promise to take care of it so you don’t have to.”

She dimpled. “You may.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

And they continued asking, and answering, and kissing, well into the night.


	46. Chapter 46

There once was a tattoo parlor and a flower shop on the same street. They were sitting right across from each other, in fact, Hooper’s Tattoo Parlour done up in friendly, bright colors with a windowsill full of cheerful flowers, and The Flower Shop kept to its stark white walls and medically-sterile displays. Molly Hooper, the petite brunette with dyed ginger tips and soft cardigans, was the friendly tattoo artist and Sherlock Holmes, the tall curly-haired brunette with expensive clothes, was the rude florist. Once, they each thought they were alone in the world, but now they knew they had the love and support of friends and family, and of each other.

It took less than a month for Robbie Hooper to propose to the love of his life, and Annie Stacks accepted vigorously. It took the couple less than six months to get married, three of those months were spent getting Annie’s sister Arabella’s blessing. Jenny Hooper, Robbie’s sister-in-law, was Robbie’s best woman, Arabella was the maid of honor, and Miss Smith was sat up in front, being far too pleased with her meddling. Robbie’s cousin on his mum’s side was the reverend, so it was a family affair in many ways. Sherlock provided the flowers, of course, and Molly did the henna tattoos for the bride.

Two months later, John and Mary Watson were the proud parents of a healthy baby girl, Shirley. Sherlock had only rolled his eyes when they’d asked him if they could name their daughter after him, but had held his sort-of namesake more tenderly than anyone expected. Bea called him “Show-ock”, and he hoped to correct her before she mangled her baby sister’s name altogether. Currently, she only called her “baby”, which was adequate for the time being. The proud and tired parents only rolled their eyes at their antics, although John admitted Bea’s nickname for his friend was close enough to the word “show-off”, which made him giggle.

Mrs. Hudson continued her off-and-on again relationship with Mr. Baudry, which was the most long-term romantic relationship either had had in decades. She continues to horrify her renter by leaving the flat wearing dark red lipstick and coming home from dates with almost none left on her lips. Occasionally, she finds Molly with her renter when she returns from said dates, and winks at the younger woman, making Molly blush terribly.

Greg Lestrade chased after Mycroft Holmes, who very much enjoyed being wooed and pursued, and chased him right back. Due to both their long work hours, very different personalities, and different locales, they had a harder time having a stable relationship, but were trying to make it work with the help of technology (phone calls, Skype, email, etc.). Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not he should be happy that they’re trying, or happy that they’re having a rough time of it. Molly suggested going with the former, and for goodness’ sake, hold still, or it’s not going to look like a dragon on his back any more.

Miss Smith made Molly and Sherlock go to a performance of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, and they made her go with them. A merry time was had by all, although honestly, if it wasn’t for her obviously advanced age, Miss Smith would’ve been booted out of the theater for being far too raucous. Cora was there for her employer’s physical support, although it ended up being more for Molly and Sherlock’s emotional support as well, since the elderly woman was ready for her darling couple to put on a staged reading of the play they’d just attended.

“No more performances for me,” Molly’s heart pounded as she stared at the old woman with dread. “I think we’d better call it a night, hadn’t we?” She looked desperately to the day nurse and her boyfriend, hoping for their agreement.

But Cora only held up her hands unhelpfully and Sherlock’s pale eyes were flashing with mirth. “Can I be Puck?” he asked, and Molly groaned. “I like this version, he was properly psychotic.”

His girlfriend rolled her eyes. “Of _course_ you’d like the madman. Or fairy. Whatever. Well, you can do what you want, but I’m not performing.”

“That’s all right, dear,” Miss Smith patted her hand reassuringly, but winked at Sherlock. “Perhaps you’ll be married before we could ever get around to putting together a staged reading, and wouldn’t that be delightful? It would give me something to look forward to, keep me on this mortal plane.”

“ _Miss Smith!_ ” they scolded her in stereo. “You’d outlive us all, you deplorable vampire,” Sherlock added.

But that only spurred the old woman on. “I always did like ‘Carmilla’,” she smirked. “One of the first romantic vampire stories, and a lesbian one at that, for the uninitiated,” she winked at Molly, who blushed. “Cora! I do believe I know what my Halloween costume shall be!”

“Oh, God,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “as if you don’t already look like a lecherous gothic bloodsucker.”

“Thank you, my dear,” the former headmistress fluttered her eyelashes at him, which made Sherlock grimace, “I’ll have to find out about why you know that story another time. I’m sure I’ll find a lovely and willing Laura somewhere.” And she winked at Molly again.

“Cease your winking at my girlfriend,” Sherlock glared, holding Molly possessively. Molly blushed, but patted him reassuringly as well as she could. “She’s my _Molly_ , not your Laura.”

“Cora, take me home,” Miss Smith demanded in an imperious tone, “these two are boring me.”

Her day nurse/fellow audience member/semi-willing driver snorted. “Of course, milady,” she made a passable curtsey, then waved Sherlock and Molly good night, and the couple did the same, before pushing her employer’s wheelchair towards her car.

Molly smiled when Sherlock opened the car door for her. She was looking forward to proposing to him after inviting him over for tea, and was very, very thankful that Miss Smith hadn’t pointed her out when teasing about marriage. She has a feeling Sherlock might know about it, anyways, or at least have some idea of what she’s got planned, but since he hasn’t said anything, she’s crossing her fingers that it’s one of those things he’s “overlooked”. Maybe. It was hard enough having to visit Sherlock’s parents secretly (she owed Greg and Mycroft a huge favor), but that they said yes eased her worries a bit. She just hoped that he’d do the same. Er, say yes, that is. She knows it’s not as overly dramatic a gesture as he might do, but then again, the last time she was overly dramatic, she tried to run away from his love, and that was a horrible mistake. Best to keep it simple, she thought, and hope for the best.

And that’s what she did, after inviting him in for tea and Sherlock accepting. She hoped for the best, even as she opened the tea tin which held the small box containing the resized ring that used to be Sherlock’s grandfather’s. When the kettle whistled, she steeped the loose leaf tea, then said, “Sherlock? Can I ask you something?”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I should post this before my fingers fall off from pulling weeds tomorrow. Thanks so much for checking it out! Yes, I used the title from a "My Fair Lady" song, but it was less inspiration than something handy to top the story with. It IS a sweet song, however, & you can see pre-Sherlock Holmes Jeremy Brett looking far too debonair as his character goes soppy over Eliza Doolittle on YouTube ;D Yay, soppy song! :D


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